Legacy: Interlude
by Ninon1620
Summary: Eleven months later, Marta and Aaron share an intimate morning, consider a decision, and make a plan; Nicky Parsons contemplates who she is.
1. Chapter 1

Her head rests on his chest, and she can hear his even breathing and the steady heartbeat. She clings to the lingering vestiges of sleep, not yet ready to wake. If she does, he will, too, and once he's up, she'll lose her favored sleeping position: sprawled across his hard body, their legs tangled together, his arms secure around her slender frame.

At night, they lay side by side on their thin sleeping mats, talking until she falls asleep. It's become a habit, a holdover from those early days on the run when restful sleep was impossible; when they'd waited for more agents to replace the one they'd killed; expected a betrayal from the ship's crew which never came; anticipated being hunted by the shadowy organizations whom they had once served, now determined to kill them. He always sleeps on his back, left hand under his pillow, wrapped around the gun. She begins the night on her back, sometimes on her side, usually facing him. But by morning, she will have migrated to this position, her body draping his with trusting familiarity.

They've already gone over everything she can remember about her work at Sterisyn Morlanta: all the tests they conducted, the other Outcome agents, the people she worked with and for, the drugs she helped developed, how the building was laid out, where the chems were administered, where paperwork was filed, the security systems; he's been thorough in debriefing her. Now their late night conversations are deep, truthful, moody and intimate; in the dark there can be total disclosure. She tells him snippets of things almost forgotten in the life of Marta Shearing; he shares half-remembered fragments of the existence he knew before he became Aaron Cross and the enhanced life that he's led in the last six years. He doesn't pull punches. She knows all about the ugly, seamy requirements of his life in Outcome; the things he's done, the people he's killed. He told her everything over the course of endless days and nights, in a flat, emotionless voice, but she could hear the doubt, see the anguish in those pale blue eyes. Morally reprehensible, absolutely necessary. A sin eater she helped create.

He never falls asleep until she's drifted off. It's purposeful, she thinks, to give her a sense of safety; that at her most vulnerable, he will watch over her. But it's not just an illusion: it's the truth. How many times now has he proven that he will protect her at the cost of his own life?

They are not lovers, but it's only a matter of time. She knows how he feels about her. He doesn't try to hide his attraction and never has. Even during his examinations at Sterisyn Morlanta, there was always something about the way he responded to her, that initial intense scrutiny, followed later by the light-hearted flirting. She sees the way his eyes light up when she smiles or laughs, occurrences now infrequent and rare; how his gaze lingers on her, cataloging everything from head to toe; the stillness of his body when she's near. There's no question about his interest. But Aaron is careful to keep his hands to himself unless she intiates contact or reaches out for him. He never rebuffs her touch; but his response is controlled, affectionate rather than passionate. He's waiting for her to make up her mind.

What _does_ she feel? Attraction? Of course; what's _not_ to like about near-flawless physical and mental conditioning? Guilt-ridden? Yes. That perfection is her creation, the results of her intellect, her pursuit of science…her fault. Frightened? Sometimes. Not of him, but what his presence represents: why they're running for their lives.

For thirty-four years of her life she had an identity, a purpose, a course wrapped up in the name of Marta Shearing, Ph.D.. Now she's a blank, a nomad, a ghost. Nothing's permanent. Their names and their histories are as fungible as the places in which they've holed up. Eleven months, six countries. They've been in Ho Chi Minh City almost two months now; it's the longest stretch of safety they've had yet. If Aaron has a plan, he's not yet shared it completely with her. All she knows is that he's looking for someone, a man named Jason Bourne. Two someones, she amends. He's also talked about Eric Byers. She remembers the cold, steely-eyed, retired Colonel. They met when he came to Sterisyn Morlanta's office for a meeting with the company's CEO and she provided a briefing on the results of the nine Outcome Agents. Aaron has filled in the gaps and she understands now that Byers was the man in charge, the mastermind behind Outcome, Treadstone and other programs she'd heard about.

"LARX," she told him. "The day I gave a briefing, I saw files for a program called 'LARX.' It's got to be the next generation of chems, fine tuning out the variances and noise."

"Noise?"

"Emotional response - empathy, sympathy, fear, guilt…they're filtering out the capacity to respond humanly and humanely."

That explained the asset in Manila who kept coming on like the Terminator.

They stay small, keep to themselves. Everything's paid for in cash. Their days are varied and they develop no routines. They're never hostile to their neighbors but they are also not welcoming. No one notices. Everyone's focused on their own isses of survival anyway to notice two quiet, unassuming French citizens, Alain and Jeanne Sevigné. They speak French with one another, perpetuating that myth.

Morning is the only time they are so physically close. She loves the feel of his body, the heat of his skin against hers, the warm crook of his neck where she nestles her face. He smells like the sea, and wind, and death: bracing and sharp. The thin layers of clothing between them aren't enough to disguise his physiological response; she can feel the hardness of his body nestling against the soft apex of her legs, and she rolls her hips against his. A sudden hiss of indrawn breath, the stiffening of his arms around her, and a short snarl are enough to know he's awake.

"Doc." His voice is low and hands resting at the small of her back are tracing circles against the soft skin under her T-shirt. He moves to dislodge her, but she resists, burrowing into his arms. "C'mon, Doc."

"Leave me alone," she mutters against his neck. "Sleeping." Her eyes closed, she rolls her hips against his again.

" _Doc._ " Now it's a warning and the hands stop their idle tracing, sliding to her waist to hold her still.

"This feels good," she murmurs.

"Yeah, Doc," he agrees. "It does. But it's going to get a little more painful for me if you don't stop and roll off me."

"If I stop, do I have to get off?"

"Bad choice of words," he grunts, as he shifts her lower half so she's no longer resting on top of him, but next to him. She misses the intimate contact and buries her face further into his neck, the arm thrown across his chest now tightening into a hug.

"Marta," he whispers softly. "C'mon. We gotta get up."

"No, we don't," she protests. "There's nothing we _have_ to do. We don't have to go to work, we don't have to go get supplies, we don't have to do _anything._ "

"We can do something," he says softly, suggestively.

And there it is, that choice he's always left to her. She says nothing, doesn't move. His hands lift hers from his shoulders and he pushes her gently onto her back, rolling to his side to look down at her. His blue eyes are gentle, enigmatic. She raises a hand to the scruff on his face and he turns to kiss her palm. The familiarity of that gesture makes her catch her breath. It's the sort of interplay that goes on between lovers, not two people trying to figure out if they are or aren't.

Yes, they can do something, she thinks. Something they've wondered about, considered frequently and have yet to act upon. They can do something. Jeanne Sevigné wouldn't have hesitated. But Marta Shearing. She's still lurking about, still pondering. Not yet ready.

He can read her easily, quickly. Looking down at her, he can see the hesitation, the refusal. There's no rancor in his expression but he is just familiar to her as she to him: she notes the lingering traces of regret in his eyes, the soft, disappointed sigh as he distances his body from hers. She wants to reach out, pull his hot, hard body against her again but she stays still.

"We need to meet someone today," he tells her.

She lifts her head and looks at him, her eyes wide. "Who?"

"Someone who can lead us to Jason Bourne."

"When did you make contact with him?" she asked.

"Her," he corrected. "I've been tracking on her for a while. She's lived in Ho Chi Minh City for the past year. In District 11."

"Who is she?"

"A former analyst at Treadstone," he says. "Her name is Nicky Parsons."

"Would she help us?"

"I don't know. But I do know that where she is – Bourne won't be too far away."

"Why?"

His eyes are very blue, very direct. "Because she's to him what you are to me."


	2. Chapter 2

_Who is Nicolette Parsons?_

She frequently ponders this question now; has for almost a year since she last saw Jason Bourne. Or more specifically, since he _allowed_ her to see him. She knows he's been following her, keeping track of her. You don't do what she did without recognizing certain patterns, seeing the subtle ripples in her daily routine when he shows up. She never sees him, but she knows when he's around or when he's stopped in while she's been out. Things get moved around on her desk, items only she notices because she deliberately places them in a particular way to catch him. The brusque scent of him lingering in her room – does he not know that she could never mistake that smell for anything other than him?

 _Will she ever be Nicolette Parsons again?_

She misses her blond hair and red lipstick, the Parisian-chic casual clothes and swingy earrings. She's been a brunette with pale features and grungy, nondescript clothes for over a year now. Baggy linen pants, loose tunics, simple shoes. One because it's as far away from Nicolette as possible, and two because it's so freaking, bloody hot here in this city. The summer months are the worst and she finds respite by going out to a little seaside town called Phan Thiết in the coastal region, the capital of Bình Thuận Province. She takes a job as a massage therapist at one of the many resorts that have sprung up there making this sleepy little village, formerly known for its pungent fish sauce production, a favored destination. During the day, she tends to guests, most of them Russian and Eastern European. She speaks fluent Vietnamese and French, and it is easy to sell them the story that her parents were an ex-patriate French couple that moved to Vietnam decades ago.

At night, after the guests have gone off dancing or eating or drinking, or whatever it is that those free of encumbrances do, she goes to the shore, avoiding the trash that washes up on the white sand beaches, and she traverses into the warmth of the South China Seas. It is her daily baptism, reaffirmation of the she who is no more. She eats whatever simple meal the resort's kitchen has to offer its workers and retreats to her small room shortly thereafter, never one to linger and talk to the other staff. No. Talking leads to familiarity. She's not allowed to have friends.

So she wraps her loneliness about her when she strips bare to lay down on her single bed.

Bourne comes to her one night when she sleeps sprawled on her stomach on that thin mattress, skin dewy from the humidity, damp hair clinging to her shoulders.

She knows he's there. He knows she's awake.

They simply pretend.

She lay with eyes closed, naked and vulnerable. He stands silent and confused, the anger roiling off of him in waves, that fine, fine Swiss cheese of a brain trying to understand why her nakedness is not new, why those graceful curves and lines are familiar to his eyes and lips and hands…

 _Why are you helping me?_

 _It was difficult for me, with you._

She weeps a little after he leaves. Just a little.

 _Is Nicolette Parsons dead? On hiatus?_

She yearns for the pretend life she had as a student. The apartment in the Marais, just a stone's throw from Mariages Frères, where she soothed her soul with a cup of Marco Polo tea every day. Where she made quiet deals with God to forgive her many trespasses, prayers which never came to fruition. The walks along the Seine, ignoring the overly romantic Americans, swept up with recreating Doisneau's portrait of the kiss at the Hôtel de Ville. The late nights in Montparnasse, eating the fish at Closerie des Lilas, and long hours reading over a gin and tonic at the American Bar. The staccato echo of her boots along the cobblestones as she marched in and out of the Sorbonne, the sounds of vendors hawking wares, the myriad foreign languages that fluttered like butterflies in the Parisian air.

From that moment in Tangier when she cut and dyed her hair, she knew that her love affair with Paris was at an end.

At the bus station where he warned her that they'd come after her, she'd been hard pressed not to laugh and send him off like Simone de Beauvoir waving farewell to Jean Paul Sartre: "You've been a witness to my life."

If only the bastard could remember any of it. But maybe it's fitting that the witness to the whole and sum of Nicolette Parsons is an amnesiac.

From Tangier she went to Egypt, and from there to India, briefly passing through Qatar. She's been on the move, culling resources from private accounts hidden all over the world and managed by the – God bless their amoral, banking souls –Swiss firm she's had on retainer for years. From India there were stints in Singapore and Thailand before she finally came to Vietnam.

At one of the internet cafes on Catena Boulevard that first night in Ho Chi Minh City, she found a note sent to the scrubbed and cleaned email account that Pamela Landy had been using: "Do not come in. I can no longer protect you."

And on the TV she learned why: Pamela, now indicted for violating national security. God, those bastards found a way to box in Pamela, tough, smart, hard-as-nails Pamela.

She generally stays far from District 1, the capital where tourists and foreigners teem. Too easy to be discovered there. Too many cameras and images that are uploaded daily to Instagram and Facebook and other platforms that the CIA and other agencies are scanning and studying daily to find people. Good guys, bad guys, dead people. Like her.

The note that appears on her iPad earlier this week startles her, nearly sends her running. _How had they found her?!_ It had been sent to the same email address Pamela used, and contained one word:

 _Foxtrot._

Friendly.

She probably should delete the message. Only Pamela knows this email address; this person didn't used the other woman's protocol so it can't be Landy. But it doesn't read like a trap. And frankly, after a year on the run, it makes her more than just a little curious.

Does she have a death wish? Why respond? But she does.

 _Olivier, Guichard and Ferret._

Bourne will be so pissed.

Maybe that's why she's doing it. Who will she encounter at the Saigon Opera House – built by architects Félix Olivier, Ernest Guichard and Eugène Ferret? The "friendly" the mystery writer declares himself/herself to be? Or something else?

She's soon to find out because here she is.

The opera house rises before her, a pink and white bijoux of a building, its flamboyant style a reflection of the French Third Republic influence all the rage in 1897 when it was built. The terribly ornate reliefs and decorations make it look like a confection out of step and out of place with this city.

Just like her.

 _Had she ever really_ been _Nicolette Parsons to begin with?_

"Nicolette Parsons?"

Her name is spoken softly, the voice resonant and low. She turns. A couple stand two steps below her. The man stares up at her with purpose, the woman with hesitation.

The man reminds her of Bourne immediately and it's not just that particular alertness that she recognizes on sight. (He's one of theirs, but not from Bourne's program. Which one, then?) The physical attributes are nearly the same: he's as tall as Bourne, with short brown hair in a spiky flat top and blue eyes. Pointed chin, broad nose. Jesus. Superficially they're the same when you try to describe them. But they look totally _different_. When last she looked at him, Bourne's eyes were haunted and enraged. This man's eyes are narrowed, squinting as if trying to piece her together, but he glances briefly at the woman by his side, and those eyes linger, they soften.

And the woman. She's beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and melancholy, green-hazel eyes. That auburn hair is color from a bottle; the woman's skin is too flawlessly pale for anyone other than a brunette.

She sees in this other woman a mirror of her own life: a palimpsest with every move. New name, new story, written and overwritten.

And then she knows.

 _She will never be Nicolette Parsons again._

 _Oh God,_ she thinks. _What the fuck have I done?_


	3. Chapter 3

Three pretend people sit in the restaurant of the Sofitel in Saigon Plaza in a quiet corner facing the entrance. Even with sundown imminent, the heat is oppressive outside, something they feel every time the doors open. Outside the restaurant window, the early evening crush of traffic is visible.

Jeanne Sevigné and Annick de Rohan converse in rapid-fire French, their native fluency belying the fact that neither of them possesses a Gallic forebear. For nearly thirty minutes they chat as old friends do, recalling nonsensical childhood adventures and excursions they've taken together over hot drinks: tea for Annick, coffee for Jeanne. The stories are funny, sentimental, touching, and wholly untrue. The women wear their disguises like a second skin, performing with Oscar-worthy caliber.

Jeanne's husband Alain nurses his whisky judiciously, his half-smile affectionate and indulgent as he observes his wife and her friend. His relaxed demeanor masks a hyper-alert scan of the room, that superior brain creating and discarding possible scenarios at an expeditious rate.

When he finally nods imperceptibly, having ascertained their safety, three non-existent people drop their feigned shared past, and proceed to cover the topic for which they've gathered.

"Outcome," Nicky murmurs, her agile mind pulling up the image of one Colonel Eric Byers. She shakes her head. "Vosen ran Blackbriar, and I heard rumors about Outcome but according to Vosen, we were years away from putting it into play."

"Well they did it," says Marta bitterly. "Right in plain view, right under everyone's noses."

Marta gives Nicky a primer on Outcome, the chems created in Sterisyn-Morlanta by scientists designing next generation modifications to what had been Treadstone. She describes the physical and neurological effects of the chems, the mitochondrial updates that enhance speed, muscle regeneration, oxygenation; the manipulation of neuroplasticity that improve sensory function and pain suppression. She tries to keep her voice flat as she recites these facts but Cross and Nicky can see the flush in her cheeks, the intensity in her eyes. The scientist is coming to the forefront and it's hard for her not to betray the excitement she still feels about leaps they made in human enhancements.

Nicky's eyes narrow. Marta catches the condemnation in that gaze. Her jaw hardens and she leans forward, anger in those hazel eyes. "You don't get to judge me. I _didn't_ know. I was hired by a corporation to run labs and read data. Did _you_ know what was happening to them, what was being done?"

"I didn't have the luxury of _not_ knowing," Nicky bites out through clenched teeth.

"But you did it anyway."

They're both so angry, so full of censure; half of it is self-directed. Cross knows this, says nothing. His brain is evolved enough to know the stupidity of stepping in between two livid women; but even so, he shifts in his seat, lifts his hand and brushes Marta's cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. The deeply intimate caress causes Marta to draw in a swift breath, breaking eye contact with Nicky to look at him. Cross relaxes his guard and lets her have everything she needs to see. Marta exhales slowly, venting her fury, accepting the complete forgiveness and trust in his eyes, the naked tenderness in his expression. For a moment they both forget Nicky, where they are, what they're doing; Cross could not be telling her – or the woman across from them – any more plainly how he feels about Marta.

When Marta returns her attention to Nicky, she is startled to find the stark pain etched on the other woman's face. Nicky's agony is a vivid canvas, painted with longing, guilt, and sorrow, the last a cancer that's eating away at her soul. It's enough to give Marta pause, to reconsider her own judgment of the former Treadstone analyst.

Marta continues, disconcerted: "The results are permanent in Aaron. We viraled him off the last chem he needed."

She explains what they had to do in Manila, injecting Cross with the cognitive virus.

"Jesus," Nicky murmurs when Marta's recitation is finished. She looks at Cross, light brown eyes skimming up and down his upper body. "So you're the next step in evolution."

Cross acknowledges with quick jerk of his head.

"What does this have to do with me? Why are you here?"

They both stare at her blankly for a moment. Her eyes widen with disbelief and she leans back in her seat.

"You thought _I_ could help you?" Nicky asks incredulously. "That you'd somehow get your lives back? That you'd be safe?"

Her laugh is bitter and scornful. Cross' eyes narrow.

" _I_ don't need to be safe or get my life back," Cross snaps. He glances at Marta. "But I want her clear and free of all of this."

Marta shoots him a startled glance. What's he saying? Aren't they together? Doesn't he mean "us" rather than "her?" _What's he saying?!_

"The only way she's clear and free – _any of us_ – are clear and free is if we've got something they want, or if we've got something they're trying to hide."

Cross nods. He knows that. "They burned down Treadstone, Blackbriar, and Outcome. Bourne's all they have left of Treadstone. I'm all that remains of Outcome. They'll be after us forever. But there's at least one other program we know of, and it's operational. Larx."

"What is Larx?" Nicky demands, her face screwed up with confusion.

Cross glances at Marta and nods encouragingly at her.

"Bourne was behavior modification. Beta I," Marta says. "Soldiers were broken down and reconditioned and reprogrammed. But they had physical problems because of the first gen enhancements, including chronic headaches, fatigue, and sensitivity to bright lights. Beta II – Outcome – used chemical fine tuning to get rid of those inconsistencies. But the problem is that the enhanced intelligence came with emotional variances."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that we weren't automatons," Cross shoots back. "We developed feelings about things. About people. We had opinions." He glances at Marta, those blue eyes softening again.

This time, Nicky grinds her teeth together, schools her face to remain impassive.

"Larx is Beta III. I didn't work on it, but it doesn't take a genius to know what's next in the super soldier series. If Outcome was designed to reduce the inconsistencies of Treadstone, then Larx is meant to delete emotional response. They're machines," Marta continues.

"We were chased by one in Manila. He's me without distractions," Cross says plainly. "It's the secret they're trying to hide. If we can get proof of the program, we can force –"

"No." Nicky is already shaking her head. "No, it won't work."

"You haven't heard –" Marta starts, but Nicky is already standing, not even maintaining her façade that this is a friendly reunion. Her glare is hostile, those brown eyes hard.

"I don't need to hear what you have to say or what you're proposing. You're talking about becoming visible again. I'm off the grid, I'm _alive_. I'm a _fucking ghost_ and you want me to resurrect myself? No. _No._ "

"If you won't, what about Bourne?" Cross asks, a hand unconsciously moving to Marta's knee in a gesture of comfort.

Nicky's bark of laughter is devoid of mirth. "I thought you said he had enhanced cognition," she says contemptuously to Marta. "You have _no idea_ who Bourne is." She glowers at them, their physical familiarity with one another fuelling her irrational and incandescent rage. "Unlike you, he has _nothing_ left, nothing to fight for or care for. He's surviving and punishing himself for it."

Marta's face is drawn with despair but Cross is calm as he tells her: "You know how to find us."

Nicky turns on her heel and marches off, her body quivering under the onslaught of so many emotions she cannot sort ire from grief. It stays with her all through the ride back to her room, that hollowness; she recalls the way Cross and Marta moved in unconscious symmetry, one shifting and the other leaning in to maintain the shape of their intimacy. She aches for what they possess; what she cannot have.

When she returns to her room in District 11, she knows.

She doesn't turn the light on, moving with practiced familiarity toward the dresser against the wall. Faint illumination comes from the street lamps outside, the room a play of shadows and light. She throws her keys into a cheap glass dish, then reaches up to divest her earrings, dropping them into the same dish. She unravels the knot at her waist and removes the light, long-sleeved cotton shirt she'd thrown on over her tank top, tossing it to the chair in the corner. Hands resting on the dresser, she finally looks up at the mirror, directly at the reflection of the steely-eyed man sitting behind her on her bed.

She was right about how he'd respond.

Bourne is _pissed_.


	4. Chapter 4

Marta can't stop crying.

She's soaked Aaron's t-shirt and she's still not done. He leans against the headboard of the bed in their rented flat in Binh Thanh, District 3, while she sits in his lap, curled into his body. His arms are around her, one hand stroking her hair, brushing the long strands back away from her puffy, red face.

They've been like this since returning from their meeting with Nicky Parsons two hours ago. In between sobs and hiccups and the occasional flailing fist that punches his shoulder (ineffectually), she finally gets it out: she wasn't angry or upset that Nicky Parsons turned out to be a dead end. She's _terrified_ by what he revealed though, that he'd leave her.

"You can't say that, you can't _think_ it," she rages. "It's us, or you go ahead and put a bullet in my head because I c _an't_ do this by myself. I _can't_."

His blue eyes are somber, and he doesn't flinch as she beats his shoulder again. He catches her wrist, holds it gently but inflexibly, pulling her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the closed fist. "But you _can_ ," he insists. "You're strong. You're tough and smart. You _can_ be on your own. But Doc, we're talking about a chance for you to have your life back, your… sister, maybe even another job doing what you were trained to do!"

That brings on a fresh round of tears, agonizing sobs that wrench through her. She recalls the denunciation in Nicky Parsons' eyes. Nicky, whose haunted gaze forced her to acknowledge the truth she shies from, the one for which Aaron gives her daily absolution.

 _What she was trained to do._

Once she would have said she was a scientist, in pursuit of pure knowledge. But that single minded approach, the moral fluidity and _carte blanche_ at Sterisyn Morlanta to fund all avenues of human enhancement, allowed her to bypass the ethical safety valves that should have warned her that something was amiss. Yes, these drugs could be applied to help special operators in the military and intelligence perform their dangerous jobs at a higher level, and these discoveries might later have become therapies to treat cognitive degeneration and neuro-developmental disorders. It was noble, the pretense to believe it true. This is how confirmation bias works: you select only what information you need to corroborate what you _want_ to believe, facts be damned. If she were a real scientist, shouldn't _all_ of the facts have outweighed everything else? Weren't _facts_ the truth?

Because what drugs for human improvement come at the cost of the scars, the bullet holes, the knife wounds, the deaths on bodies numbered 1-9? Three of them had died from the viraling, the others bordering on deathly ill. They've come to her with shredded bodies, one with a nearly shredded mind before they sent up to a frozen wasteland. She knows all the scars on Aaron's body. She's kissed some of them in the darkness of night, a gentle touch of her lips to the raised and marked flesh that are the visible choices of her decisions to create and inject these meds. Some are new but the older ones? She _catalogued_ those, wrote them down, asked him meticulous questions about healing rates, measured length and appearance of scars. Not once had she ever inquired how or why. Not once had she permitted herself to wonder what he'd been doing to acquire those injuries.

But she's not a scientist anymore. There's no longer a noble premise, no plausibly honorable outcome (ha, see what she did there?) that can excuse her willing myopia. She sees herself clearly; as Nicky saw her. That's partly why she was so angry at the restaurant. Why she's so devastated now. She is morally reprehensible and _not_ absolutely necessary.

And she _cannot_ _go back to that_. And the wrist he's holding flexes as she curls her fist tighter. She wrests her hand free and hits him again, harder this time. He grunts though she isn't doing any damage to his shoulder. But she's not done. It's as if the dam has burst and she pushes away from him, this time putting force into her left fist as she pummels him, his chest, his shoulder, his arm. He takes it. She knows that he can physically withstand a lot. But when she looks up at him in the midst of her rage, she sees the torment in his eyes. That's where he hurts, she knows. Her agony is what kills him.

She collapses into him again, shaking, face buried his neck as she inhales, filling her lungs with the sharp essence of him. For a moment, she wonders what it is about the smell of him that always calms her, until she recalls studies about people who experience a rush of dopamine when they encounter the scent of a compatible partner – someone whose immunology is completely different. It's biological: the offspring of two different immune systems are more likely to withstand disease. But the science underlying that knowledge doesn't take into account the sexual warmth that hums through her body as his scent washes over.

"Jesus, Doc," he mutters tugging gently on her hair with his other hand until she lifts her tear- stained face. Some women cry beautifully, their faces photogenic portraits of suffering. Not her. She knows what he sees: red runny nose, red runny eyes, her pale cheeks flushed, her mouth quivering.

And yet he still looks at her in wonder, like she's a gift.

"God, I love you," he whispers.

She blinks. Blinks again. _Did he…_

He blinks, too, as if surprised that slipped out. He's so damned controlled, his heightened brain always working the angles. So what was the end game here?

"I love you," he says again, calmly, blue eyes burning with conviction.

"Then there's _no_ life but this one," she tells him tremulously, shaking her head angrily when he goes to interrupt her. "What happens to me if I return? I'm marked, as much as I am now. Maybe I'll be safe for a little bit, but what happens if there's an accident? Something small, insignificant that doesn't raise an eyebrow? How would you know it wasn't on purpose? And what about you? Am I supposed to be okay with you running for the rest of your life, wondering if you're dead or alive? What kind of selfish bitch do you think I am that I'd take my life back under those circumstances?"

He's frustrated. "Doc – "

"Didn't you see her? Can't you understand? _She_ can't return to her life either. This is the most free she can ever be. Living in the shadows, hiding, having what life she can. But she's _alone._ " Then her voice cracks and tears slip down her cheeks.

"There's no returning to the life I had once they burned down Outcome," she chokes out, locking eyes with him and making sure he sees how serious she is. "The difference is that in this one, I have you. _I have you."_

With that, she moves toward him, her hands cupping his stubble-rough face to press her mouth against his before winding her arms around his neck. She finds herself suddenly crushed against his body as his strong arms slip around her waist, pulling her close, muscles in his biceps and forearms flexing against her lower back as his hands clench fistfuls of her shirt. She opens her mouth to his on a soft sigh, finds herself on the receiving end of an impossibly passionate and thorough kiss, one he's been holding in check for… _years_ maybe.

She catalogs this encounter as a series of impressions: the firmness of his lips, one of his hands tangling in her hair before reaching up to grasp her face, holding her still as he traces a line of kisses along that graceful jaw, the hot press of his open mouth against her vulnerable throat, the touch of his tongue when their mouths meet again, the other calloused hand sliding under her shirt to stroke the soft skin of her midriff before moving upward to gently cup the rounded swell straining against the serviceable cotton bra. He swallows her soft noise of arousal, permits her to push him back just long enough to grab the bottom of his shirt. He helps her to pull it over his head, baring his upper body to her; then her lips are exploring that strong column of his neck, her hands stroking along the breadth of his shoulders, down powerful arms. He sighs, makes approving noises, remains quiescent while her soft kisses travel across his chest.

It's a maelstrom.

And just as the fury escalates, just when his hands start to pull up her shirt, his burner phone beeps. The harsh ringtone signifying a new text message is as effective as ice water being poured over them. They stutter to a stop, both breathing harshly, their heated, impassioned bodies confused, outraged by the cessation of pleasure.

They both look at the phone, across the room on the stripped bureau.

Only one person has the number to that phone.

Nicky Parsons.


	5. Chapter 5

_Now..._

Nicky feigns indifference at seeing Bourne though her pulse kicks, and her breath hitches. It's her only give. The momentary confusion on his face is his only acknowledgement that he's received a tell.

Outwardly he appears calm, even placid. He holds her gaze in the mirror, neither of them moving or speaking. But she was once his handler; she knows everything about him, far more than even _he_ knows about him. Everything about Jason Bourne is not about what's visible, but what's under the surface.

Funnily enough, that was true before, when he knew who he was. In Paris, he talked easily, his eyes crinkling in amusement when he smiled, he was engaging. But she came to learn he had a poker face that Phil Hellmuth would envy. For all that openness, he never gave away a single thing. Every thought, every feeling, every emotion was so difficult to extract that when he finally opened up to her, it was Christmas morning, all wrapped up with a bow.

She considers his reflected expression, and looks underneath the mild exterior, searching for the subtle cues: the tight coil of his shoulders; the taut set to his square jaw, the deceptively pacific and blank blue eyes.

Yep. Bourne is livid.

"Who were they?" he asks without preamble.

"Fugitives from the next gen black ops," she answers. "What came after Treadstone and Blackbriar. When Pamela went public with what you gave her, the programs they were part of were burned. They made it out. They're on the run."

No hesitation, no prevarication. Never between them. They don't do small talk. They don't lie to each other. It's always been like that.

* * *

 _Then..._

"This is not a coincidence."

Nicky sets down her tea cup, half-glaring at the lean, handsome man who enters the upstairs tea room of Mariages Frères and comes to her table.

"No," he agrees, pulling out the other wicker chair, seating himself. This table is nestled against in the corner of the room and Nicky sits with her back against the wall. He glances at the window next to her. There is no corresponding frame on his side of the table.

"It's a table for one," she informs him. He glances down at his wicker chair. Nicky can't stop the smile that begins to pull at the corners of her mouth. "It's for show. It's not meant to be occupied.'

"Hmm," he grunts noncommittally.

Jason Bourne is one of Paris base's most enigmatic assets. She knows all about him – on paper, anyway. He joined Treadstone after his father, a CIA analyst, was murdered in Beirut. He's the primary Treadstone operator. In the twelve years since his first mission, he's developed a reputation that is at once fearsome and possibly hyperbolic.

They've exchanged maybe a handful of conversations unrelated to a work since she arrived in Paris a year ago, but they've been keenly, actively aware of each other. Half-glances across conference tables. The quiet rooms where she briefs and debriefs him, both holding onto quiet professionalism while something _other_ underscores their interactions. The way they both exhale and inhale in rhythm with each other when speaking about an op. The inconspicuous brush of his hand against the small of her back when he opens the door for her. The time she leaned into him when their elevator was crowded, feeling the heat of his body like an electric current through her arm.

She's younger by eight years, but the disparity of their experiences makes that gulf seem so much wider. She was recruited by the CIA three years ago, straight out of UVa. Her Psychology senior thesis, which focused on higher order conditioning, got into the hands of a senior analyst at Langley and they came knocking. A series of fortuitous – or deliberate? – lateral moves put her at Treadstone, and now she manages logistics, though sometimes she feels like little more than a glorified admin to Deputy Director Conklin.

"What are you doing here?" she asks as he signals the waiter, who immediately comes over.

Part of her cover is as a graduate student at the Sorbonne. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, after her classes, she makes her way to this tea house in the sixth _arondissement_ before heading home. The flagship tea house isn't far from her flat in the Marais; that's normally where she meets classmates and people to preserve her disguise. But this location on Rue des Augustin is the one she goes to just be Nicky Parsons. It's cozier, romantic; the smartly dressed waiters in white are unobtrusive, and this corner seat with its sole window gives her a chance to just _breathe_.

He holds up a hand to her. _Wait._ He turns to the man, orders in a flawless Parisian accent, " _Bonjour_. _Je voudrais un pot du thé Tsar Alexandre et l'un des plats Nostalgie de Pondichéry._ "

" _Oui, monsieur_." The linen clad waiter bows and turns.

Jason turns back to her. He's clean cut and good looking: thick brown hair, brushed away from his angular face, blue eyes. "I overheard you talking to Starling yesterday," he says.

Nicky feels her face warming. There was only one conversation with Starling yesterday and it wasn't about work. Starling is one of the new assets. He hasn't hidden his interest in her; and yesterday, made a play. Nicky's among the few women in the Treadstone operations; and easily the youngest. The active operators aren't much older than she; other people their age go out, drink, have fun. Not they. Their world is intense, forcibly intimate; and as a result of working in such close, almost claustrophobic quarters, they sometimes forget that their closeness is make believe.

"What you said to him? I just want you to know that 'We work together. This isn't happening,' doesn't fly for us."

Her brows shoot up. "What 'us'?"

His eyes are so blue. He reaches across the table, takes the suddenly trembling hand at rest next to her tea cup. He presses his palm against hers, then laces his fingers through hers, focused intently on the task. Nicky does not pull her hand back but she cannot look at him. She stirs her tea with her free hand, the pretense at indifference contradicted by her racing heart. She keeps her gaze fixed on their intertwined hands until she feels the waiting pull of his eyes and she glances up. He is in deadly earnest, those blue eyes so intense, so intent.

"This 'us,'" he says softly, implacably.

* * *

 _Now..._

Those eyes are still intense, intent. Just focused elsewhere.

If Bourne was furious before she told him everything Cross and Marta Shearing shared with her about Outcome and Larx, he is now beside himself with rage.

She finishes flatly: "They burned Outcome and everyone connected to the project. Cross is the only one left alive. She was administering their meds."

"What do they want?"

"They want to come back in." She laughs, the sound short, clipped, hollow. "They think exposing Outcome and Larx – which is operational apparently – is their leverage."

She fixes him with a bleak look. "I said no. You exposed Treadstone and Blackbriar and it didn't make a difference." She thinks about Landy, currently in jail as she's waiting for her appeal, the destruction left in the path of Jason's amnesia and the unraveling at the top from Conklin to Vosen. She continues, almost cruelly: "Except for the dead bodies we left in our wake."

Bourne flinches. It hurts him to have a conscience now. She thinks about everything he endured, knows this is the worst thing she could say to him. More dead people on his hands. He doesn't understand that she's not attacking. She's confessing. Because that blood?

It's on her hands, too.

She can see him weighing her words. Can see him trying to figure out whether or not to get involved. She's almost certain he's going to get up from the bed and walk out the way he came in, disappear without a word, continue ghosting her. In fact, she's ready to bet on that when she sees the shift in the way he holds his body, a momentary tension.

"Call him," Bourne says. "Set up a meet."

She's unaware she was holding her breath until it leaves her in a whoosh.


	6. Chapter 6

_Now…._

"No," Nicky says.

Bourne can't mask his surprise. Nicky drops her head, her smile bitter. He wouldn't know of course, and can't remember that Nicky used to routinely defy him. She always challenged him, never made it easy for him. It was partly a characteristic of her personality, and partially because she liked keeping him off kilter. Bourne was so rigid, so precise, so _intense_ that she wasn't above throwing him a stick of dynamite from time to time to shake him up, force him to be present.

In this present, he knows none of that. He frowns.

"Call him," he repeats firmly.

She looks up again, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "No." 

* * *

_Then…._

"This?"

"No." A smile and she flits away.

An exasperated sigh from him. He moves to another row of flowers, pointing at a gathering of breathtaking burnt orange and brown roses. "This?"

"Nope," she trills, trying to contain her laughter.

"These," he says, pointing to several other floral arrangements.

" _Non, nyet, neh, nein, nej_ ," she warbles negatively in several languages he knows.

He looks out of place, standing among an explosion of colors and scents, his masculinity even more emphatic in the center of all that beauty.

Paris' famed flower market is located on Place Louis Lépine, flanked by Notre-Dame Cathedral and Sainte-Chapelle chapel. The open air pavilion is bursting with a dizzying array of fresh cut blooms, majestic purples aligned with blood red and sunset oranges. Yellows, blues and pristine whites. Every color imaginable, flowering plants of every kind are available.

The swarm of bodies can be oppressive as tourists and locals alike push at one another to pick up blooms for their table or to pose for pictures. The only problem with visiting the market on Saturday, apart from the crowds, is that they don't have birds available. The bird sellers come on Sundays, when the florists take the day off. That's usually when Nicky goes to the market – to buy several cages of birds along with her favorite flowers; the flowers she keeps, and the birds she releases over the _Pont au Double_.

It's a little bit of rebellion, a symbolic reclamation. Or some such drivel.

"I'm not giving up," Bourne declares.

Nicky rearranges her long scarf, twirling into an infinity loop. In her skinny jeans, navy lace shirt and ballet flats, she's more _Parisienne_ than American.

"I'm not waiting on you," she warns, taking a few steps away from him.

"Nicky." He drawls her name slowly, making that word as intimate as a caress. "I wouldn't get too far from me."

She snorts derisively. That has hardly been an issue. In the office, out of the office. There's no respite from him.

It's been five weeks since that encounter at Mariages Frères. After a tremulous moment following his declaration, she'd pulled her hand away, retreated into herself, too overwhelmed to allow him pursuit. He'd accepted her quiet withdrawal, and they'd had tea together silently. The lack of words, however, did not suggest a lack of a conversation; they would look at one another in between bites, they would touch every now and then, fingers brushing against hands, wrists, lingeringly, longingly. He shared his lunch platter; she gave him half her macaron. She sampled his tea, wrinkled her nose; he tried hers, eyebrows rising approvingly. They exited the building together, backs of hands brushing against each other, fingers nearly clasping; but upon walking out that door, they separated, she toward her flat, he in the opposite direction.

In the office, they alter neither behavior nor conversation: all is as before his declaration. They do not casually cross each other's paths; they do seek each other out. But out of the office, all bets are off.

On weekends, she does not keep to a schedule; but somehow, Bourne always managed to appear where she went. She called him out on the stalking after the first few times it happened. He stopped showing up unannounced. Instead, there appeared the following weekend a note tucked into her mail slot. She read the bold, precise print:

The Sun Also Rises. I'll be at the bar.

Whenever.

She was tempted. So drawn. Still, she resisted, forcing herself away from Montparnasse, where he was waiting at Closerie des Lilas' famous American piano bar. It was there that Hemingway wrote most of "The Sun Also Rises" and drank with James Joyce. She ran her errands, enjoyed a lovely lunch at her favorite bistro in the Marais; she assiduously avoided the left bank. The day passed and moved on to dinner, and then night fell in the city. She was heading home when she found herself in the mood for a walk; and somehow she found herself down Boulevard Saint-Michel near midnight, telling herself firmly that she was just going to pass by, that it was a lovely night for a long walk. But she couldn't suppress the tightness in her chest, the fluttering in her stomach.

Maybe she'd have a late, light snack, she thought. _Alone_. Her absence could only have sent a very clear message. He would not be there.

Boulevard Saint-Michel became Avenue de l'Observatoire and then she veered right onto Rue Notre Dame des Champs. The venerable Closérie des Lilas loomed ahead, the conservatory full of diners among the leafy plants. The brasserie looked equally as crowded. Finger food would suffice, she decided, heading toward the piano bar.

The room was dominated by leather and dark woods, plush booths, and a dark mahogany long bar with brass accents. The ever present pianist was playing. A wall of liquor was ready to pour any drink, no matter how esoteric or mundane. At the far end of the bar sat a quiet figure, reading a book, a tumbler of amber liquid by his side. She stopped, gobsmacked.

 _He was still here._

As if preternaturally aware of her entrance, he looked up, the blue in his eyes warm, welcoming. He had been here all day, all night, but there was no reproach, no irritation in those eyes. She approached slowly, lips slightly parted to allow for her suddenly quick breath.

 _He was still here._

"I said, 'Whenever,'" he noted with a smile, gesturing at the empty seat next to him.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," she confessed, sliding onto the barstool.

"But you hoped I would be," he said confidently. She bristled, ready to argue. He forestalled with a gentle smile. "Why else are you this far away from home at midnight?"

"Because it's Paris," she snapped, determined to hold onto her pride. She fiddled with a spot on the bar.

"I'm not giving up," he advised her, his voice as warm as the richness of the wood beneath her fingers.

That was three weekends ago. Since then, he leaves notes for her, telling her where he'll be on Saturday or Sunday. There is never a demand that she come. Despite her best efforts to resist, she has yet to miss a rendezvous. During their assignation last Sunday after lunch in the _Quartier Asiatique_ , they went for a walk, stopping on the Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir. The pedestrian bridge overlooks the Seine and links the 12th and 13th _arondissements_ in Paris. It was on the bridge that Bourne leaned in to kiss her; but she backed away, too rattled to allow him that liberty. He did not take offense, merely smiled, acquiescing to her refusal.

She's thought about the near-kiss for the last six days. Apparently he has too; because when they met this morning, he announced that he intended to kiss her before they parted.

That's why he's now standing amidst a riot of blossoms. This is his penance (for his presumption) and his trial (to earn the right to kiss her).

They'd met at the Louvre. She ordered him on a march to the Flower Market in the _quatrième._

Find her favorite flower. If he did, the kiss was his.

"I'm not giving up," Bourne says again wading through a sea of blue and violet and orange and white.

He is a damn good looking man and if he were anyone other than who he is, and if she were anyone other than who she is, there would be little to mull over whether or not to kiss him. But it's complicated. For all his playfulness, that cheery patience whenever she shows up _much later_ than she intends or wants to, because she doesn't want to seem so eager for his company, for all that openness and laughter and easy conversation about books and movies and music…she has no idea who he is. He's a complete blank. He's extremely versed in a wide range of topics – a necessity in their world; but she doesn't actually know how he feels about anything. And then there's the fact that he's essentially a very dangerous man. She has no illusions about what he is. What she is.

She was in a meeting not too long ago with Conklin and a Colonel Byers, debriefing an assignment that had inadvertently endangered a platoon of his men. After the ass chewing he'd dished out, he'd calmed down and uttered, "What you do is morally reprehensible but absolutely necessary. You are sin eaters. But cross that line again and I'll shut you the fuck down."

It was the first time since she'd come to Treadstone that she absolutely understood the justification for her role, the cost of what she did.

"Nicky, give your brain a rest," Bourne calls out. She's startled. Is he reading her mind? He quirks a brow. "Just…be here."

She wrenches herself from all the what ifs and whys, tries to return to this moment and enjoy the spectacle of him walking down a row of nasturtium and violets before he finally, unerringly, goes straight for a vase of cut daisies. She catches her breath.

He speaks to the florist, hands her a franc, and plucks one delicate stem out of the vase. He walks to Nicky, white daisy in hand. There's a look on his face…she considers it. Not triumph. It's certainty.

 _He knew. He knew all along._

"Fair maid," he says, bowing with a flourish, presenting her with the white petalled beauty. He's so close to her, crowding in; she wants to take a step back. She doesn't. She holds her ground.

"You knew."

He inclines his head, then points at her neck. Her hand flies up to touch the daisy charm necklace. "You're kind of an open book, Nicky…"

That's not true.

"…If someone knows what language you're written in."

And he does.

He waits patiently, flower still in hand.

It's on the tip of her tongue to say, "No." To lie. To refute his claim.

What a scene they make, she thinks. Young man offering a daisy to a pretty girl. Paris bustling all behind them. They're a snapshot away from becoming a postcard image.

She _hates_ that her hand is shaking slightly when she reaches for the bloom. Hates that he can see her response. He is so cool, so measured. Why the _fuck_ is he always so calm? It comes again, that thought that she doesn't know who he is, doesn't know how he feels about anything.

"I don't know who you are," she murmurs. His gaze is steady, focused solely on her.

Before she can take the flower, his reaches with his other hand to grab her wrist gently. His expression does not change; he is aloof, collected. She's confused as he pulls her hand toward him. He places her palm squarely over his heart, his hand holding hers in place.

In direct contrast to his placid demeanor, his heart is _thundering_. There is no pretense here. She gasps softly, looks up, startled.

"My name is David Webb," he says very softly, very solemnly.

Nicky tugs at her hand. He doesn't let go. So she reaches with her other hand, plucks the flower from his grasp.

"Hello, David."

"Hello, Nicky."

She tucks the flower in her hair, then moves in closer to him, lifting her hand to his cheek. When she pulls the hand over his racing heartbeat, he lets go this time; she cups the other side of his face and pulls him toward her. His hands drop gently to her waist, and when Nicky leans forward, lifting slightly on her toes, his head bends down toward her.

And when their noses brush, just before their lips touch, Nicky whispers, "Yes." 

* * *

_Now…._

Bourne gets up from the bed, his stance aggressive.

Nicky doesn't flinch from the hostility. She steps away from her bureau, ignoring him as she walks to the small armoire which functions as her closet, pulling her damp tank up and over her head. She's not wearing a bra. He makes a surprised noise.

 _Fuck it, it's not like he hasn't seen it before._

Well technically he can't remember that he has.

"Get the fuck out, Bourne," she tells him wearily, pulling on a fresh tee shirt. "I'm not calling them, I'm not helping them, I'm not getting involved. You're the one who told me it gets better. I'm waiting for that to happen and I'm not becoming another casualty in your amnesiac cluster fuck. So leave. Go back to ghosting me, or better yet, leave me the hell alone."

When she turns, it's to find him _directly_ in front of her, that big body crowding into her. Bourne's face is impassive, those blue eyes angry.

"No," he grits out.


	7. Chapter 7

_Now…_

Nicky doesn't even think about it.

Her fist catches Bourne across his lower jaw, and his head snaps back; she might be shorter and smaller, but Nicky can hit _hard._ It's a lucky shot because Bourne wasn't expecting it from her; no one else would have caught him unprepared. But in the time it takes her to pull back and take a breath, she's slammed up against the closed armoire door. His hands are wrapped around her crossed wrists, hard and punishing against her chest.

A grunt of pain escapes and Nicky is _furious_. He has her pressed so hard against the armoire she can barely draw breath; but that fulcrum is all she needs to lift both feet, kicking at his shin with her right foot, smashing his other knee with her left. He buckles and Nicky slams her forehead into his chin. Bourne snarls, again caught off guard; Nicky snaps out of his hold and swings again, narrowly missing a good punch to his side because he pulls back swiftly, instinctively.

She knows something he doesn't; and she presses her attack. The faint lights outside provide all the illumination they need as they tumble across the small room, growls punctuating the strikes and blocks. A flurry of jabs and kicks are easily deflected; she forces Bourne back a few steps but it's laughable. She learned from the same fighting instructors he did; but there are light years of difference in their techniques and skill levels. Yet even though he could easily snap her neck, kill her in innumerable ways, he doesn't. He's holding back, defensive rather than offensive. She can sense his surprise, his confusion that he won't finish her. That he _can't_.

 _How's that working for you, motherfucker?_ she taunts silently. The brief revel is overshadowed by an accompanying pang. _You were right, David. If we hadn't done it, I'd be dead now._

* * *

 _Then…._

"David."

She calls to him softly, from the foot of the bed. It's the safest place for her to be when he's in the throes of a nightmare, when he's so subsumed by nocturnal terror that he might not know who she is when he wakes, and strike out defensively.

Of course she can fight back; but even her highly advanced combatives skills are laughable compared to his. It wouldn't take much for him to snap a wrist, break an arm, or cause even more serious damage before he woke from a dream-induced haze. It's happened before: they were lucky he only broke her index and middle fingers last time when she'd reached out drowsily to touch him. The nightmares have become more frequent and more sustained in the last few months. She's afraid it's a break in his conditioning, wonders if the other assets are experiencing similar problems. None of them have told her about nightmares, but they're all so paranoid they probably wouldn't. She debriefs them, runs assessments; but they're so clever, they can find their way around any question. She wonders about the new drugs that have been administered. What aren't they (all) being told by their superiors?

But she also wonders if the break in programming isn't because of the experiment she's been running at Bourne's insistence.

They've been lovers now for nearly six months and both of them know it's a matter of time before they are discovered. They do not meet at her flat or at his. They have a private studio in a quiet corner of Montparnasse, rented under a false identity. They deploy every tactic of spycraft when they rendezvous in between his assignments. But they know it's _when_ , not _if_ , they are found out. Which is why David insisted that she secretly implement a special program, training a particular response where she is concerned.

 _"It's for your safety, Nicky," he'd said when he'd first asked her to develop the new protocol._

 _She had refused, insisted that this was a dangerous endeavor. He had been equally adamant, demanding that she comply with his request._

 _"You administer the drugs for them, you oversee our psychological health. You've been trained to do this. For fuck's sake, your entire senior thesis was built on this. You have to do this."_

He didn't need to say out loud what they already knew: if Conklin or Treadstone's superiors deemed Nicky an impediment to the machinery that is Jason Bourne, they wouldn't hesitate to burn her. And they wouldn't be above making him kill her as a means to reinforce his conditioning.

Ultimately she'd given in. And now she wonders if she should have. But she can't bring up his nightmares with her superiors – because if it _is_ the result of her tampering, and not something happening universally to the others – she and Bourne will have exposed themselves.

He sits up swiftly, the sheet sliding down around his waist, his bare chest heaving. He is coated with sweat and he stares at her, blue eyes panicked. He's gasping, as if drowning. She wants nothing more than to rush to him, take him in her arms and comfort him. But he's not himself yet. There's neither recognition or awareness in those blank eyes, just terror.

"David," she repeats quietly.

His head swivels towards the sound of her voice but those dark blue eyes remain blind to her. Nicky's hands tighten on the wrought iron bar of the bed frame. This is the part she hates the most, where the intersection of dream and reality begin to slowly diverge and the emptiness in his eyes linger, the killer that is his Bourne identity in charge. She waits for the unblinking, shark-like darkness in those eyes to eventually warm, to recognize her.

The transformation is so subtle: when Jason Bourne gives way to David Webb, there's no tension in the way he holds his head, as if alert and listening for every sound around him; there is a slackening around the jaw, so it is not tense and rigid; and David's eyes are wide and open, not narrowed in focus.

And when David Webb looks at her, there is utter and complete trust, maybe even love.

"Nicky." Her name is a sigh, an exhalation. And Nicky starts to breathe again, as she does every time he recognizes her. He slumps forward, breathing hard. "Come here."

She doesn't comply immediately, padding over to the floor-to-ceiling double windows which lead out to the balcony. The Hausmannian flat is not big, a mere 48 square meters; but it is lovely and secret, overlooking a quiet avenue. Cool air fills the room, the soft wind a pleasant brush against her naked body.

David sits with his arms draped loosely around his knees, his head bent. His breathing is no longer rapid and shallow. In the light cast by the moon, she can see he is still trembling though. She approaches slowly, reaching for the pitcher of water on the night stand, pouring him a glass.

"Here," she says softly.

He lifts his head, takes the glass from her, downing the water quickly, placing the empty glass back on the table. His hand brushes against her hip, fingers spanning the graceful curve as he pulls her toward him. Nicky moves slowly, looking down at him, brushing his damp hair away from his face. He turns toward her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his face into her stomach, inhaling deeply, as if the scent of her is what he needs to maintain his sanity. Maybe it is.

"It's getting worse, David," she whispers fearfully, stroking his hair.

He doesn't answer, just holds her tighter. It borders on pain, that death grip. But she doesn't protest, doesn't pull back.

"What can we do?" she asks, even though she knows he has no answers.

He turns his head, his cheek pressing against the flat of her stomach, his breath fanning across the sensitive skin. He moves his head slightly, as if shaking his head.

"David, no one else is having nightmares," she tells him. "It doesn't mean they're not, but what if…what if our protocol is affecting your conditioning, causing problems?"

He pulls away from her, looks up, his eyes troubled but his features gentle, loving. "It's not a problem if I can never hurt you," he says unequivocally.

* * *

 _Now…_

It's when her eyesight is completely blurred, when she can't see anything that Nicky stops punching him; and she realizes she's crying. And fuck, she is _mad_ that she's so goddamned weak. She, who has come this far on her own; the keeper of secrets for Conklin and Abbott and Vosen and Landy; the deceiver of those same, who has swallowed lies and buried truths, who has unintentionally or willingly sent people to their deaths just to protect this man. She drops to her knees and crouches on the ground while her former lover looms over her. Her bruised fists dig into her thighs as tears slide down her cheeks. She struggles, and fails, to contain her wracking sobs.

The glue and tape holding Nicky Parsons together shreds, and she cries the way she's wanted to since the night he no longer recognized her, when he took Conklin and her hostage in the Treadstone safehouse. She holds her shaking sides, desperate to stretch out on the floor and simply howl. But it's humiliating and infuriating enough that she's weeping wildly at his feet, her control in splinters.

Bourne does not move, does not lean down to touch her, or offer comfort. He keeps the strip of distance between their bodies, but surprisingly, he does not leave. And when it's over and she's spent, so tired, she finally rocks back on her heels and looks up at him.

In the half light, she can barely make out his features, but her mind can fill in those hewn features, those enigmatic blue eyes.

When he speaks, the words are low. "That's four times now that I haven't ended your life." He pauses, then marvels, "I can't kill you."

It's not a question.

"No."

"Who are you?" he rasps.

 _To me?_

That subtext lingers between them.

"No one." Nicky utters a choked sound that could be a partial laugh, or a sob. "Fucking no one."


	8. Chapter 8

Nicky gets up from the floor, avoiding contact with his body because he does not move; he remains planted where he stands. She walks around him to the small fridge across the room. The efficiency apartment is economical: a bed, a bureau, a small kitchenette, a table for one, two windows. A fan that's barely useful in combating the oppressive heat in Ho Chi Minh City. It's a spare domicile for a single person, devoid of anything warm or personal. It's a place to hole up, with emphasis on hole.

She grabs a bottle of water and drains it, standing with the fridge door open to cool her heated body. Her knuckles are throbbing and she resists the urge to press them against another cold bottle. She's done with showing weakness.

He hasn't moved. He remains with his back to her, an oddly exposed position for Bourne. Surreptitiously she studies the bunched muscles at his shoulders, the tension in his neck. She knows he is sensitive where neck meets shoulder; that he loved it when her lips caressed that curve during lovemaking. Or at least David Webb did.

Jason Bourne is another matter altogether. She wonders what Marie Kreutz discovered during the two years she had with Jason. A full year more than Nicky had with David, although technically they never "broke up." Does it count if you stay in love with a man who doesn't know you anymore? A man who doesn't remember who he was, who loved someone else? The bitterness which never really dissipates begins to churn, and she slams it down viciously.

 _Now is not the time to confuse Jason Bourne with David Webb._

"There's nothing for you here," Nicky says, closing the fridge door.

Bourne turns to face her, his movements precise, clipped. "Why can't I kill you?"

She reaches out and flips on the small bare bulb in the kitchen. The room floods with weak light. She winces, her eyes smarting with the sudden illumination. He blinks rapidly, agony rippling across his face. It's not merely his eyes adjusting to light; it's a profound sensitivity to light and a chronic headache. She remembers this. She does not address his momentary physical weakness, but makes note of it considering her earlier conversation with Marta Shearing.

"Because I conditioned you outside of the Treadstone programming to never hurt me."

She can see him sifting through his most recent memories, starting from their first post-amnesiac meeting almost four years ago, after the botched Wombosi assassination, to the last time they spoke face to face, at the depot.

"Why?"

"You asked me to."

"Why would I do that?"

"I administered your drugs, oversaw your mental health. You insisted on this particular correction."

"What were you to me?"

"Nothing," she says swiftly. To Jason Bourne she had been a handler. To David Webb…she was the woman who woke in his arms, shared his coffee and the morning paper, the person with whom he could pretend that he was _only_ David Webb.

And David Webb wanted to protect her from Jason Bourne.

But he doesn't remember David Webb, and enough has been taken from her; she's not giving up anything else.

His eyes are narrowed, fury roiling off his body. How to piss off a man who can't remember anything? Refuse to share what you know about him. She regards him mutinously.

"If it makes you feel better, you actually _can_ kill me, but only if I'm directly threatening your life."

He moves on. He's not going to beg. "How did they know about you?"

"Cross and Shearing?" She laughs, the sound hollow. "My face was plastered all over the news afterwards as your accomplice, Bourne."

"How did they find you? Where'd you screw up?"

She wants to point out that he's never had a problem finding her. Then again, she's never actually _tried_ to hide from _him_.

"Cross pieced together everything that went down last year. Me, you, Landy, Vosen. He said he got a hold of Pamela Landy's email and started searching for me. He found a private email address that she and I used. He tracked me here from Landy's last message to me."

"You were working with Landy?"

"Not at first. I didn't know who to trust. But toward the end, yeah. She was trying to bring me back in, clear me when she realized what Vosen and Kramer had done. But then they burned her when they created that bullshit story that Blackbriar was an operation to bring you down and that she helped you."

"Why would you expose yourself by meeting them?"

She shrugs, wondering herself. It was a violation of tradecraft. It was absolutely stupid. But she'd been alone and adrift for almost a year. Something about that one word email: Foxtrot, for "friendly" had appealed to her, called to her. _Despite_ Bourne's warning at the depot that if something felt wrong, it probably was, to get out, to start over.

"You need to get out of here." She hates the flat, monotonous way he speaks, like an automaton, every sentence exact and succinct. The lack of inflection makes him sound completely indifferent and uncaring…which is probably true.

She shakes her head. "They're not a threat to me. But you're right. It's high time I got on my way. If they're on the run too, who knows what's following them?"

"Before you get your ass out of here, call them," he grinds out.

"So you can kill them?"

He seems surprised that she's accurately guessed his intent. His inability to kill her goes far deeper than he understands. He's also inculcated to protect her from any threat he perceives. It's why he was so determined to save her life in Tangier when Desh Bouksani came after her. He had no loyalty to her; as far as he knew, she was a part of the machine that had made him and killed the woman he loved. An admittedly rogue agent who helped him, but even so: he owed her nothing. He could have let her die. And yet he'd fought Bouksani for her life.

Nicky shakes her head. "Not a chance."

What she doesn't want to tell him is that she's afraid. She's scared that the next gen version of Treadstone is better, stronger, more capable than Bourne. Shearing did a good enough job of explaining Cross' capabilities that Nicky's worried. Outcome was the Ferrari to Treadstone's Porsche.

A fully functional Bourne is superlative, even a match for Cross, but Amnesiac Bourne is flawed with physical and psychological tremors. Cross can possibly outthink Bourne. Cross has most likely considered Bourne's possible responses, has created contingencies. And Cross loves his woman. That's a dangerous advantage.

So no. There's no chance Nicky's going to set into motion a chain of events that may end up with Bourne's death. Because even though he can't remember a blessed thing about her, at least he's alive.

That tightness in her chest, that fluttering in her stomach? It's hope. The same stupid, _goddamned_ bit of hope that kept her walking to Closérie des Lilas that night, to him, even though he should have been long gone. The hope that thinks that maybe one day... But if he's dead?

He moves to the door with purposeful stride and she panics, realizing that he doesn't actually need her to call Cross to _find_ Cross.

"She's his Marie."

He whirls on her, a savage expression on his face.

It's such a low blow. It's been less than a year since Marie died, killed by a bullet meant for Bourne. There's enough of David Webb leaching into Bourne that she knows he hurts.

"He loves her. You take her from him and he'll come for me to get to you. I'm alive" – barely – "and _you owe me_."

His face is like granite, those eyes cold. "Get out of Vietnam, Nicky."

Then he turns and opens the door, walking out without a backward glance. The door closes behind him. Nicky's heart is racing and she's fighting not to run after him. She goes to the window, looks down below and sees him walk out her building before he disappears into the night.

Nicky reaches for her phone and dials from memory the number Cross gave her earlier. It rings repeatedly; just when she thinks it's going to voicemail, Cross answers.

"Yeah."

"Meet me at the Caravelle Hotel," she says without preamble. "Check into a room, leave a key for me under the name Heidi Barrish. I'll be there in an hour. If I'm not, get the hell out of the country."

* * *

Marta starts to tremble.

It's a delayed reaction. Forty-five minutes ago, she was humming with tension, ready to give herself over to sexual pleasure with Aaron; then the phone rang and after Aaron hung up, it was a mad, frantic dash to grab their bags and leave quickly. They've raced from the one end of Ho Chi Minh City to the center of town, checked into this upscale high rise hotel that caters primarily to wealthy expatriates and European visitors.

Aaron is securing the room now, drawing shades and curtains; checking the lock on the door again while she sits on the bed, half leaning against the pillows, watching him.

When he's satisfied with his precautions, he turns around and notices her involuntary shivering. "Doc, hey," he says softly, concern etched on his face. He takes a seat next to her on the bed, putting an arm around her shoulders. She sags into him, breathing deeply, wishing she were stronger, more capable. But even after nearly a year on the run, she still feels fragile, scared. He kisses the top of her head and she closes her eyes, deriving strength from him. She draws in a shuddering breath.

"Aaron," she says softly. "I wish I were better at this."

"You're doing fine," he reassures her. "Parsons is on her way."

"Why? She told us no. Is she changing her mind?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Aaron, about earlier –" She breaks off, not sure where she wants to go with this conversation. Earlier they were about to make love, to give into the awareness that's been throbbing between them since they went on the run. Aaron told her he loved her; she told him she was committed to him. It's all so confusing, so overwhelming –

"Nothing has to be said right now," he says gently. He kisses her head again.

"I don't want to die," she whispers, hating the whininess in her voice.

"No one's dying, Doc."

He is so warm, so capable. She leans on him and they watch the door in perfectly amenable silence.

When footsteps approach the door, Aaron tenses, gets up, drawing his gun, pushing Marta back. They hear the beeping as the electronic hotel key clears and the handle turns slowly.

Aaron lifts the gun.

The door opens slowly and Nicky Parsons' voice calls out, "I'm alone."

Aaron does not drop his gun.

It's not until Nicky steps carefully in the room, kicking the door closed behind her, hands by her sides, palms facing forward that Aaron lowers his gun. Nicky's in the same loose linen pants she wore earlier, with a different cotton shirt. She lifts the strap of her messenger bag over her head. She sees his eyes narrow, focused on her red and swelling knuckles.

"Bourne," she says briefly, with no other explanation.

Cross is tense again.

Nicky turns to Marta.

"I want you to tell me about more about the chems, and what you know about first gen meds they administered at Treadstone."


	9. Chapter 9

"Whoa, stop," Cross interrupts, blocking Nicky from approaching Marta. "What do you mean 'Bourne'?"

"I fucked up," Nicky tells him baldly.

"What did you do?" Cross stiffens.

"I thought he'd understand you were running, same as us. But Treadstone, Blackbriar, Outcome, Larx – to him, it's all the _same_ machine. He might think you're a threat to me." She pauses, looks apologetic. "He might try to kill you."

Cross has his hand wrapped around Nicky's throat before she can react. She chokes, but quickly cups and slams both hands over his ears. On a lesser man the balance disturbance caused by the pressure should have sent him on his knees. Cross doesn't flinch from the compression blow.

"Aaron!" shouts Marta, surging from the bed, grabbing at his arm for all the good it does.

Nicky doesn't struggle, doesn't waste her strength. She recognizes that he's a superior adversary, but that while the hand around her neck is bruising, he's not tightening around her windpipe. Even so, her hands remain tight and punishing around his wrist.

"Did you bring him here?" Cross demands, his blue eyes ferocious.

Up close the differences between his and Bourne's eyes are so noticeable: Bourne's eyes are a pure, pale blue; Cross' eyes are slate blue, marked with shards of black, grey and green.

She holds his gaze and whatever he sees in her eyes must convince him she didn't double cross them; he lets go. Nicky shoves at him, her hand going to her throat. Marta wraps her arms around Cross' side.

Nicky inhales sharply and deeply a few times. "Bourne's conditioned to protect me. He doesn't believe you're not a threat to me."

"And how the fuck are you going to fix _that_?" Cross exclaims, furious.

" _You_ came to _me_ ," Nicky shoots back, getting in his face. "I wasn't planning on getting mixed up with you, but your dying because of my own stupidity didn't sit right with me."

"Well that's mighty grand of you," Cross says sarcastically.

"You said he was 'conditioned' to protect you," Marta interrupts softly, who releases her hold on Aaron as if recognizing that he's not going to lunge for Nicky again; but she does not stray from his side. "What does that mean?"

Nicky counters: "Tell me about the Beta I drugs that were administered."

"I wasn't part of the program then so anything I tell you is derivative at best," Marta offers. "But from the notes we were given, the initial impetus for the first generation drugs was to address the physical and psychological problems they were experiencing. Paranoia, anxiety attacks, severe PTSD-related symptoms."

"Headaches? Sensitivity to light?"

Marta nods. "Fatigue, insomnia, lack of appetite, hallucinations."

"Nightmares?"

"Sure. But any of those things could have been the result of the PTSD or the insomnia and not necessarily the drugs."

"Were there notes on any outliers in terms of physical or psych results?"

"One subject suffered from amnesia."

Nicky inhales sharply. "But none of the others?"

Marta shook her head. "But there were two suicides. Beta I participants were…the way they were conditioned – they were tortured, brainwashed, broken down and then rebuilt. That kind of trauma eventually rebounds. Emotional injury is harder to heal than physical injury." She glances briefly at Aaron. "No drugs can correct trauma like that. Beta II focused less on brute strength, more on fine tuning chemistry to get results. They weren't crippled physically and emotionally during their training."

Marta gestures at Aaron. "Remember earlier I said that we made minor alterations to two chromosomes? On the physical side we increased the mitochondrial protein uptake by one and a half percent. It was enough to see physiological recovery, cellular and muscular upticks, rapid oxygenation. We were building Captain Americas. Their bodies recovered, healed at astonishing rates. But we also looked at the psychology, ways to help them use their brains. We wanted them to work through scenarios and talk themselves out of negative outcomes rather than to expend themselves fighting. Instead of triggering their para-sympathetic nervous systems so they'd go into fight or flight mode, the chems we created were designed to control and calm their pre-frontal cortex activity, initiate problem solving, extreme focus. Like taking a super-powerful version of Adderall."

Nicky eyes her. Marta takes a breath, then says softly, a little brokenly. "I really thought what I was doing would make a difference to my country."

Nicky can't summon up scorn; it was the same impetus that had convinced her to accept the offer from the CIA when they'd come to talk to her at UVa. It was the same thing they'd said to convince her.

 _Your country needs you._

"Let's get back to how we're gonna convince your boyfriend not to kill us," Cross growls.

"You're presuming a lot about him and me."

"Am I wrong?"

Nicky ignores the question. "How did you know Bourne's been keeping tabs on me?"

Cross glances briefly at Marta. "It's what I would have done."

Nicky purses her lips, shakes her head slowly. "He knows me only as the logistics and psych person at Treadstone…"

"He can't be that stupid?" Cross exclaims in disbelief.

"No," Nicky agrees. "But..." She trails off, swallows, tries to get past the sudden knot in her throat. Blames it on tenderness from Cross' chokehold. "He…the woman he loved died last year. Marie Kreutz. They were together for two years. Blackbriar killed her a few weeks before he gave Pam Landy the documents about Treadstone."

Cross' breath quickens. Marta makes a soft noise.

Nicky continues grimly: "I didn't consider…his brain is full of holes. I don't even know to what extent he's been damaged. He doesn't know what's real from his life and what's not; what he was made to do and what he actually wants to do. He doesn't know where Jason Bourne begins and ends. I should have told him that his need to protect me is a conditioned response. I…didn't."

"Why the fuck not?" Cross demands.

Because it makes her like _them_. The people who killed Marie Kreutz. The people who tormented, brainwashed, destroyed him to make him their creature. It doesn't matter if her methods were kinder; or even that it was at _his_ behest. As far as _this_ Jason Bourne will see and understand, she fucked with his brain, too. And it's entirely possible that everything in the last few years, his breakdown, his amnesia and the attendant fubar – is her fault. Because her re-conditioning led to a complete break.

"Who re-conditioned him to protect you?" wonders Marta.

Fucking Cross is too perceptive. He sizes her up, figures out the answer. "That's why you wanted know about the Beta I chems. You're hoping it's not because you screwed up."

Nicky's jaw begins to hurt and she forces herself to relax, unclench her teeth. "We wait for him. He sees you're no threat to me, everyone goes on their merry way."

"You're presuming a lot about him," Marta warns. Nicky turns her attention to the other woman. Marta shook her head. "The way you've described this, he's a loose cannon with no real knowledge of who he is; only that there are shadow conspiracies everywhere and one of them murdered someone he loved. Now he feels compelled to protect you and you think him seeing us sitting here together and holding hands is enough to break that compulsion?"

Cross looks at Marta as though debating what to say. It sets Nicky's back up, the way he's always so careful with her.

"For fuck's sake, Cross," she snaps sharply. "Stop babying her. It makes her a liability." Cross shoots her a hostile glare. Nicky doesn't back down.

"Shut the fuck up," Cross growls. "You don't know – "

"She's _deadweight_."

Marta reads the tension, the increasing hostility, the escalating emotions. She moves to withdraw from Aaron, to distract his attention and ramp down the situation, but he puts his arm around her, pulls her close to him.

"Stop making her dependent on you to survive," Nicky grounds out, clearing her throat once, rubbing her sore neck. "Arm her, teach her, do _something_ to make her useful or she's going to die."

Aaron is pissed, steps toward Nicky aggressively. Whatever he's about to say or do is moot when the window behind them smashes in, glass shards barely contained by the silk curtains. A lean figure lands on his feet in the room amidst shattered glass, springs from the ground, gun drawn into shooting position.

Cross shoves Marta to a side, spins and kicks the Sig Sauer P229 out of Bourne's hand before the other man can get a shot off. Bourne lunges forward, and Cross manages to only just step to a side, narrowly missing a vicious punch.

The Beta operatives face one another, squaring off, ready to fight.


	10. Chapter 10

The men lunge at one another in a furious volley of punches and kicks. Cross blocks a high punch and goes low with a drive to Bourne's ribs. Bourne takes two hard hits, grabs Cross' right arm and wrist, and spins to his left until the other man is behind him; he brings his left elbow back into Cross' jaw. Cross' head snaps back from the blow, and Bourne drives Cross back against the wall. Picture frames fall. They tumble across the wall, knocking over a small round table and lamp which crashes to the floor. As Bourne goes to shove Cross back into the wall again, Cross forces a rotation and slams Bourne face first into the wall. Bourne smashes his boot down on Cross' instep and turns quickly to strike Cross.

Cross dodges the hit, attacks Bourne with a hard punch. Bourne deflects the extended fist, and swings an arm around Cross' neck, pushing him down, using his knee to toss the Outcome agent to the floor. Cross kicks to his feet rapidly and they face each other again.

Cross bends his elbow over Bourne's extended right arm to divert a punch. Simultaneously, Bourne strikes out with his left hand. Cross grabs that wrist and brings his right arm down over Bourne's forearm. Cross pushes Bourne's arm down and around until he traps it in a hold over his shoulder. His left hand holding Bourne's arm in place, he strikes a a blow to Bourne's neck with his right hand.

The rapid feints and parries, strikes and counterattacks are typical of the modified Kali fighting style in which the Beta operatives were trained. Physically, they're evenly matched: both in the prime of their lives and honed to peak perfection.

Nothing's going to stop them until one of them is dead.

It's Nicky's nightmare come true.

Nicky sees the discarded Sig Sauer on the ground and leaps for it. Marta gets there first. Grabbing the loaded gun from the ground, Marta points it at the men, firing right above their heads. Plaster and wall spray the men; they duck, stepping back to separate corners, momentarily startled.

"Shit!" yells Nicky, hoping no one's in the room Marta just fired at. She whirls on the other woman only to find Marta racking the slide, pointing it directly at her.

"Stop or I will shoot her!" Marta shouts.

Bourne freezes, his muscles coiled, his body instinctively turning to Nicky.

They hear screams from the room behind them. Doors are opening and people are shouting in the hallway.

Nicky drops to her knees, heedless of the gun at her head. Marta's hands are surprisingly steady.

A snarl more animal than human-like erupts from Bourne's throat.

"Stop," says Nicky through clenched teeth. "Marta's not going to kill me."

Both men are watching the women, but still intensely aware of one another. Cross looks like he's about to launch himself at Bourne again while the other man is focused on Nicky.

"They're not here to hurt me," Nicky says distinctly, drawing Cross' attention, willing him to back down.

"Doesn't look like that from where I'm standing." Bourne's voice is harsh, low. He's amped on adrenaline, and he's struggling to ignore the clear danger to Nicky.

Without breaking her gaze, Nicky lifts up her right hand, palm facing up, and orders succinctly: "Marta, take your finger off the trigger and put the gun in my hand."

Marta glances at Aaron who is holding to his corner of the room, watching Bourne, waiting for any sign of aggression or intent toward the women. Bourne is breathing hard, laser focused on Marta.

"Bourne." Nicky's voice is firm.

He shifts his gaze to Nicky.

"Marta is going to put the gun in my hand and Cross is going to stay to _that_ side of the room and walk around behind me till he gets to Marta. We clear?" His attention is fixed on her, an unblinking, piercing blue stare. Nicky's brown eyes are wide, fierce, determined. "You're not going to move a muscle, got it?"

The shouting and running in the hallway are in contrast to the stillness in their trashed hotel room.

"Marta," Nicky says warningly.

Slowly, Marta pulls the barrel from Nicky's head, her index finger off the trigger, and lowers the gun onto Nicky's outstretched hand.

"Step back from me," Nicky instructs. Marta takes two steps back and away from Nicky. "Cross, go to Marta."

Cross moves slowly, giving both Bourne and Nicky wide berth as he moves behind Nicky and goes to Marta, pushing her gently behind him. Marta resists, remaining at his side.

Without looking down at her hands, Nicky swiftly ejects the magazine, racks the slide and empties the live round into her hand. Her movements are efficient and practiced as she field strips the gun, locking the slide to the rear with the slide catch, rotating the lever above the trigger ninety degrees and guiding the slide off the frame. It takes her only another five seconds to remove the recoil spring and the barrel. All four pieces of the Sig are on the ground next to the Mec-gar magazine in less than thirty seconds.

Nicky maintains eye contact with Bourne. "You are safe with -," her voice trails off, truncating what she intended to say.

Bourne's lambent eyes are narrowed, mistrustful.

She tries again, forces her voice to stop shaking. "I am safe."

This time, there is a relaxing around the grim set of his mouth, though his eyes remain thoughtful. Nicky exhales deeply, slumping forward slightly in relief. There's not going to be bloodshed in the room.

There is new commotion in the hallway. The hotel's security guards are shouting at people to move out of the way. Footsteps are bearing down the hall toward their room.

" _Stay_ ," Cross barks at them as if talking to recalcitrant children. He goes to the door, opens it and leans outside, waving his hands, his voice taking on urgency and panic. "Officer! Officer! We heard shooting there!" He points down the hall. "What's happening? Do we need to get out? My wife is hiding in the bathroom, what do we do?"

Behind him Nicky swiftly reassembles the Sig and slaps in the magazine, tucking the gun into the back of her pants. Bourne scowls but Nicky doesn't care.

The security guards, following Cross' misdirection, rush past him down the hall. He quickly opens the door, checks both ways then gestures to them. The four of them flow out into the hall, along with several other guests who are racing to the elevators. Nicky observes that Bourne and Cross keep their distance, or as much as they can given the narrow passage. They head toward the staircase, racing down the five flights to the lobby. Nicky wonders where the hell Bourne was situated to break through the fourth story hotel room window. The main lobby is filled with panicked and confused guests who are blocking the same entrance that police are trying to enter. Other guests are exiting through various entry ways and congregating outside.

Sirens can be heard approaching. The three of them follow Nicky, who walks to the Café de l'Opéra, one of the hotel's multiple dining establishments. This one offers a view of the Saigon Opera House. Nicky grabs a pen from a credit card portfolio on the bar as she strides quickly to the exit that lets out onto Đồng Khởi Street.

"There's a noodle house in District 11 called Thiệu Xinh," Nicky calls out as she writes on her hand. "Lê Đại Hành street. I have a room above the restaurant. Number 4. Marta come with me. We'll do better as two women. Meet us there."

She turns and shows her hand to the two men, watching as they both process and commit the name of the noodle house and the street on which it is located to memory. That done, Nicky, uses the pen to quickly scribble out anything legible and tucks the pen into her pants pocket.

Cross does _not_ like this plan at all. It's plainly visible on his face but Marta moves to him, pulls his head down and presses her mouth against his in a deep kiss.

Bourne is immobile as a statue watching them; Nicky stares across the street, determinedly not looking as she scans for a taxi.

When they break apart, Marta looks up at Cross. "I'll be all right. Get there safely."

He's still not okay with it, but he nods and takes off across the street. Bourne and Nicky exchange a long look.

"I'm safe," she says. "I'm not in danger."

It's as close as she can get to saying, _Leave. You don't have to stay._ She reaches behind her back to grab the Sig, handing it to him. He takes it, nods and leaves in the opposite direction from Cross. She watches him disappear for the second time that night and wonders if there'll be another rendezvous.

More police have arrived and are rushing into the hotel's entrance. Guests are milling about. Smart phones are snapping photographs, taking video of the scene.

"C'mon," Nicky tells Marta, hurrying toward the taxi stand. "Keep your head down. There are cameras all around."

Marta doesn't need the reminder; her head is already down. She knows all about evasion.

* * *

 _On the run again_ , thinks Marta, keeping pace with Nicky.

Once they leave Đồng Khởi, she follows Nicky a few streets over to Hai Bà Trưng. Nicky flags a taxi and speaks to the driver in Vietnamese. Marta can't tell but it seems that Nicky's accent is flawless, so much so that the driver appears to be exclaiming in pleasure over her fluency.

The air conditioning in the taxi feels good after the oppressive humidity and warmth of the evening. Marta lifts her hair from the back of her neck, allowing the cool air to wash over that damp skin.

"You speak Vietnamese," she remarks when the other woman settles back against the seat.

"One of our maids was Vietnamese," Nicky offers off-handedly. "She spoke to me in Vietnamese at my mom's request."

Marta is surprised by this candid revelation. So Nicky grew up with some affluence. It's all she gets from Nicky though; the other woman clams up, and stares out at the passing landscape as they make their way out of District 1.

The driver passes by Công viên Cảng, the semi-circular shaped park that overlooks the Saigon River. The car heads in the direction of Võ Văn Kiệt, the main highway that runs along an inlet of the river called the Bến Nghé.

There don't seem to be any road rules; motorcycles, moped, small cars, trucks and motorized carts weave in and out of traffic, miraculously not hitting each other or anything else. Marta watches as a young man swerves his Vespa directly in front of a moped ridden by a man and a woman, who is clutching a small baby in between them. She gasps when the family on the moped simply veer around him. No one is wearing helmets. Wide, tree-lined streets, high rises and well-lit store fronts pass in a blur until the buildings get denser, shabbier, and look more like tenements. Soon there are few trees and plenty of roads littered with trash and crowded with people.

 _Where is Aaron?_ Marta wonders. What if Bourne doubles back and tries to hurt Aaron? She bites her lip, reminding herself that Aaron was built to out-think, but he can also out-muscle if need be.

Half an hour into their trip, the driver pulls off the highway and makes his way through a series of smaller streets with tightly packed buildings. He pulls up to a nondescript ediface. The top half is painted white, the bottom is an aqua-greenish color. The paint is chipped and splattered with dirt and stains; the windows and doors are worn. The neighboring building is equally grimy and shabby.

Nicky pulls out cash and pays the man, then opens the door. Marta slides on the seat and follows her out. Nicky starts down the long alleyway formed by the two buildings.

The gantlet is dark, a couple of motobikes pushed up against one wall. It runs about 50 feet long, at the end of which she can make out lights.

"C'mon," Nicky urges, walking quickly.

Marta can feel the ache in her calves as she keeps up with Nicky, but a few moments later, they emerge on the other side onto a wide stone street. Both sides are fronted with shops, cheap apartment buildings and restaurants. Working class Vietnamese mill about, and barefoot children squat on steps. Flimsy bistro chairs and tables are set up along the sidewalks, some of them occupied with people eating steaming bowls of egg noodle and pork soup. A ragged little black dog flits from table to table, begging for scraps.

Nicky heads to a small storefront, stepping around to the side of the building, heading down another alley before she stops at a door. Pulling a set of keys from her pocket, she opens it. Marta follows her inside and they head up four flights of stairs before arriving at a single, small landing with two doors. Nicky unlocks the one to the left and enters, flipping on a switch. Light fills the room.

Marta steps inside, noting the extremely spare set up: a futon with a dark blue mattress, a desk on which rests one laptop and a bunch of devices that look like routers, modems, and external drives, a chair, a lamp. There are two duffel bags shoved between the desk and futon. Across the room is a full size mattress on the floor, pushed up against the sole window. Nicky heads to the window which overlooks the street, pulls down the shade.

"Now what?" Marta asks.

Nicky is already by the futon, hauling out one of the duffel bags. Unzipping it, she pulls out two guns. They're both small, compact, black. Marta can't tell the difference between them.

"You know your way around a gun." Nicky's not really asking a question. "You're going to need one."

"I had a revolver," Marta comments. She had a Smith and Wesson 386 that she'd kept for home defense. She remembers when Larry and Dr. Connie Dowd – if those had really been their names – had come to her house and tried to kill her by placing the revolver in her hand and forcing it to her head. Then Aaron had burst out from the pantry, saving her and killing all the assassins sent by NRAG to eliminate anyone associated with the Outcome project.

"These are semi-automatic 9mm pistols," Nicky says. She points to them. "Glock 19 and Heckler & Koch USP Compact. Pick one." She reaches further into the bag and pulls out magazines and ammo boxes. Then she mutters sarcastically, "Other girls keep dream chests. I keep arsenals."

Marta looks at Nicky. "What happened to going our separate ways?"

"Doesn't look like it's happening does it?" Nicky slams a box of 9mm ammo down so hard it splits and bullets roll across the floor. "I should've left you all at the hotel once Bourne agreed you guys weren't a danger to me."

"Yeah well, it would have worked out a lot better had he walked into the room like a civilized human being instead of bursting through the window for a shoot out," Marta agrees, getting down to help Nicky gather bullets. "Beta I is all about fight or flight, Nicky."

"Jesus," Nicky grounds out. "Just…shut up with the science, will you?"

Marta's hit her limit.

"Nicky?" Marta says sweetly. "Fuck you. No, really. Fuck you. You know DoD scientists used dextroamphetamines to keep their pilots alert during missions? Yeah. They gave them speed. Ostensibly to combat fatigue, but really intended to keep pilots wide awake long after fatigue should have set in from extended missions. The US Army gave Dimethylamine to their soldiers to help with stamina and performance. That's a substance that's banned as a performance enhancing drug by the World Anti-Doping Agency. You know what DARPA did? They implemented the Peak Soldier Performance Program. It was a biomedical attempt to make soldiers function for up to a week without requiring sustenance. They were doing everything from creating nutrients to finding ways to lower core temperatures, and boosting mitochondria. Was it to torture their soldiers and airmen and sailors? No. They thought they were doing something to make their people better, more capable, more able to come home alive."

Marta leans forward, eyes blazing. "Maybe we both bought into a patriotic bullshit story that didn't pan out the way we thought it would. Even if you knew what was going on and maybe I didn't _want_ to know what was going on, the end results were the same. We were creating super soldiers for the war games our country is waging. And I don't know what the hell _you_ were doing, but _I_ was trying to figure out ways to give our guys _leverage_ so they could live, so we could bring home people instead of body bags. So fuck you."

"Marta," Nicky says slowly. "Seriously shut up with the science before I have to kill you. And then I'll have to kill your boyfriend when he shows up and sees you dead. And if we're unlucky enough, Bourne's gonna appear at the same time and then there's going to be a three way battle and every one will die. It'll be fucking Shakespearean."

Even though Nicky sounds resolute, Marta hears the concession in that sarcasm.

"I like Shakespeare," Marta snaps as she returns to picking up bullets.

There's a sound at the door. Nicky grabs the Glock and slaps in a magazine, racking the slide, the distinct sound extremely loud in the sudden silence.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thank you all for the enthusiasm and encouragement and kind words; for the reviews and PMs sharing your thoughts and asking questions! I'm genuinely shocked because I never intended for my little brain dump to take on a life of its own. This was originally a one-shot with the Legacy characters, but then Nicky Parsons started talking and I couldn't get her out of my head. I'm supposed to be working on something else writing-wise, but I keep pulling on this crazy little thread and it keeps unraveling and I can't stop myself. I appreciate so much that you're pulling, too, and asking, "But what about - ?" It sends me in unexpected directions and that's fun and thrilling and challenging. I will * **try*** to keep updating as quickly as I can but real world and my other project are hunting me down and I'm not sure how much longer I can hide in my closet and work on this interlude. But for as long as I can, I will. Please be patient and forgive me if future updates are not as swift as you (or I) would like. Thanks again reading!

* * *

The voice on the other side is familiar: "Doc."

Marta gasps in relief, moving for the door. When she opens it, Aaron sweeps inside, gun in hand, pushing Marta behind him and checks the room to make sure it is safe; seeing only Nicky, he lowers his gun. Seeing only him, Nicky does the same. He turns around, hand curling around Marta's neck as he pulls her close. Marta's arms go around his waist, her face turns up to his.

Nicky looks down, refocusing her attention on gathering her loose ammo. The lamp casts their shadows on the wall, two entwined figures, a single dark entity.

Aaron kisses Marta, hands cradling her jawline. She is so relieved to see him, that he's none the worse for wear. He pulls away with a protesting sound when she squeezes him. She lets go, concerned.

"Sore," he murmurs apologetically, one hand dropping to rub his side. He moves back to the door, opens it and pulls a duffel bag inside.

"How did you get our bag?" Marta wonders.

"I went back into the room and grabbed it before I headed this way."

Marta looks furious. "Are you insane?"

He shrugs. She sighs, drops her forehead on his chest. His arms go around her again.

"No trouble?" Nicky asks.

He shakes his head. "Bourne?"

"No." She shrugs, tries to be nonchalant. Nicky refuses to acknowledge the twinge that comes with that denial. She dumps the loose bullets into the bag.

"You got .357 ammo in there?" Cross asks, stepping away from Marta after a fond kiss to her forehead.

Nicky opens the bag, digs in. She tosses him a magazine and slides a box of ammo to him.

"You got a plan in there, too?" he asks, ejecting his empty clip and replacing it with the full mag.

"There's no plan," Nicky determines. "We hole up here tonight, split tomorrow. I'm out of Vietnam, you guys go to wherever you're going."

Cross looks irritated but doesn't say anything.

"I wanna know something." Nicky gets up, tucking the Glock into the back of her pants. "You said you got into Landy's email. How'd you do that?"

"I paid a hacker out of Germany a chunk of cash to get into the system. You'd be surprised how vulnerable government networks are. A lot of their people don't seem to understand that you don't click on links or attachments. Phishing works every time. Once he got access, it was just search and hunt. Landy made a mistake and sent a message to that private email of yours from her government-issued Blackberry. I pulled on that thread and found you."

Nicky considers this, files it away for another time. "Why? Why were you looking for me?"

"Bourne," he replies. "Since he exposed Treadstone and Blackbriar, I needed to know what else he had."

"He gave Landy everything."

"That you know of. What if he still had something he hadn't turned over? Like Larx or something else?"

"What does it matter? There's no point in exposing Larx. They're a Hydra. We'll never cut off enough heads."

"Actually we only need to cut off one." Cross sits on the futon, opens the box of ammo, and reloads his empty clip. "Eric Byers."

"You're crazy," Nicky tells him flatly. She remembers the colonel who'd chewed up Conklin and spit him out. Remembers how he threatened to take Treadstone away.

"The National Research Assay Group oversaw at least four Beta programs: Treadstone, Blackbriar, Outcome and Larx. There are more. Bet on it. Byers is the Beta program kingpin. He _is_ NRAG. Someone in NSA or USASOC or DoD wants one, they apply to him. The CIA tried to hold on with Treadstone and Blackbriar, but they got sloppy – when Landy exposed them, Byers had to protect later gen projects by sacrificing Outcome."

"How do you know this?" Nicky queries.

"Me," interjects Marta. "Some of it anyway."

Cross nods. "Marta gave me a starting point. My hacker found a small thread between Ezra Cramer, Admiral Turso and Dr. Hirsch. It had been in Landy's documents as part of discovery for her trial. Then it went missing when they reinvented Blackbriar as an operation to bring down Jason Bourne."

Nicky frowns. "You didn't say this earlier."

"You weren't willing to stick around to listen," Marta reminds her.

Aaron continues: "If we come forward with Larx, all we've got is another program that they can sweep under the carpet. Bourne exposing Treadstone was like robbing a bank for a hundred bucks. I'm talking about pulling off a billion dollar heist."

"What exactly _is_ your plan?" Nicky asks.

Marta looks curious, too, as if she's hearing this for the first time. Nicky thinks she probably is.

Cross sets down the full clip. "If we can get to NRAG, get the Beta programs, we own them. No more running, no more going to ground."

"You're going to bring it all to light?" Jesus, Nicky thinks. That's all she needs, another crusade that gets more people killed.

"We've seen how well that works," Cross notes sardonically. He shakes his head. "No. We hold the information hostage. Something happens to any of us that isn't old age, a chunk shows up on Wikileaks."

Nicky considers the recently minted "journalism" repository which publishes news leaks and confidential information. They recently posted documents about equipment expenditures and holdings in Afghanistan, and corruption in Kenya, events which garnered global news headlines.

"It's a Mexican standoff but Byers will agree to it because he'll want to protect his pipeline. They back off, leave us alone," Cross states.

"For how long?" Nicky inquires. "There's a finite amount of time in which those files mean something. They can change it, update it, hide it, call it something else."

"Not if we tie them all together and show a concerted conspiracy. Not if we get names, hard evidence, and a trail that links the key players. You think the Navy, the Army, the CIA, DoD, companies like Sterisyn Morlanta want to explain before Senate hearings and courts and the American public how they spent funds and broke laws? Murder? Assassination? Possibly treason?"

"What about the program participants?" Nicky demands. "What if they do to them what they did to Outcome?"

Cross' blue eyes are cold. "I don't care."

 _Fair enough,_ thinks Nicky. Because she doesn't care any more either. "So your plan is that we break in their digital vaults and steal the data we need."

"No," he says with a dangerous half-smile. "We've _already_ broken into their vaults. I've got an inside seat in their network right now."

"What?" Nicky is intrigued.

"I told you: government networks are surprisingly insecure. The tech might be airtight, but the humans run the system and they're the weakest link every time. My guy launched an advanced persistent threat against their network. He spear phished names I knew from NRAG and deployed some custom malware. We managed to pick up access credentials to their network and installed a remote admin software. We've been collecting information about the infrastructure and we've got some admin privileges."

"What are you paying 'your guy'?" Nicky asks. "How do you know he won't double cross you?"

"A wire transfer worth his while. And not killing him, respectively. Besides, I got him into a black ops network. You think he's not dying to explore? We get what we want, he gets to keep a bot in the network to look to his heart's content."

"If you've got that, why did you need Bourne?"

"Expediency. Either Bourne has what I need, or I have to go digging in this network. Problem is I don't know what I'm looking at or for." He scratches his chin, eyes her thoughtfully.

Nicky observes that superior brain engaged and assessing.

Then Cross nods, more definitively this time. "That could work," he murmurs softly. He looks at her intently. "I thought the play was Bourne and what he had. But it doesn't have to be."

"What are you talking about?"

"It could be you and what you know."

Nicky waits.

"You're the only one of us who was on the inside. You're the only one who had clearance. You know their methods, you know the protocols, the way they do things. If I had time, maybe I could dig around; but we need to exfiltrate data soon, before they catch us. Chances are they've got behavioral correlation engines that will scream the minute we move any data. So we don't want to get the wrong data. We've been sitting quietly in their network for the last three months because we don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

Nicky frowns. "I knew Treadstone and Blackbriar's SOPs. There's no way they'll match NRAG's procedures."

"I don't need them to match. You have enough of an understanding of their protocols to find what we need. You managed logistics for all of Paris base. You're telling me some conventions aren't standard?"

Nicky hesitates, wonders if possibly –

"It could work," Cross asserts. "Between my guy's skills and your knowledge, we've got algebra here. We tie the programs together, we've got Byers by the balls. We cut the monster at the head."

"And if we don't?" Nicky's been trained to think in contingencies. "What if everything's off network, behind a bunch of firewalls we don't know about?"

"Unlikely but if we don't, we do it the old fashioned way." He pauses. "We break into NRAG."

"Yeah, you had me until 'break into NRAG,'" Nicky declares flatly. "That's just…no."

"Which is a good thing I came up with a plan that doesn't involve me breaking into a black ops agency, wouldn't you say?" He sighs. "Still may be necessary if we don't find the programs or something that links Byers to Treadstone or Blackbriar."

"Excuse me. Breaking into a black ops facility is part of your plan?" Marta has been standing by the door, listening to them quietly until this moment. Marta knows there's an odd inflection to her voice that doesn't sound right. Aaron looks at her curiously as if he can't figure out the underlying tone.

Nicky doesn't seem to have the same problem; she is on her feet, clearing her throat. "Look, it's…late. This has been a long damned day. I'm not agreeing to anything. I'm going downstairs to get something to eat. I'll be back in two hours."

She reaches into the interior pocket of the duffel and grabs something before zipping up the bag and kicking it back in place next to the futon. Nicky drapes a messenger bag over her shoulder, throws a pitying look at Cross, and flings something onto the desk before she quickly leaves the room.

Aaron looks up at Marta, who knows she is glowering, _livid_. "Doc, that's just a back up plan. That's only if we can't find what we need on their network..."

"We agreed," she interrupts, her voice trembling with rage. "We agreed there was no more plan. And if part of your plan is to put yourself in physical danger? Then Nicky's right. There is _clearly_ something wrong with your cognitive abilities."

"If Parsons agrees, it's all under the radar. We don't have to be anywhere but on a computer. It's the only way they'll leave us alone," he begins earnestly. "It's the only leverage we have. I didn't tell you about it before because I wanted to protect you –"

Marta can't take it anymore. She's still stung by Nicky's earlier assertion that she's deadweight. She _knows_ this. She's not trained to be a warrior; she's a scientist, the natural career path for an odd little girl who loved test tubes and books, whose painful awkwardness and shyness had precluded easy friendships. She can run data, make informed analytical leaps, write in-depth and brilliant articles for peer reviewed journals. She can stand before corporate executives and colonels, generals and admirals and tell them what their super soldiers are capable of withstanding. She can show diagnostic results for how these enhancements can potentially the save lives of active assets, or be applied in rehabilitation for amputees.

But running, killing, and surviving? These were not things she ever imagined being part of her life. And she's done the best she can, but even so, it chafes, the way Aaron tries to wrap her in cotton and wool. She knows he can't help it; she knows part of the science that made Outcome agents so exceptional never took into consideration their _very_ human instincts.

"Stop protecting me!" she screams at him. "Stop keeping things from me, stop making plans that don't have my input. We're _together._ That means we do things together. I'll give you leeway for deciding what's safest for us; but no more patting Marta on the head like I'm a doll before you sneak off and do what you think is best for _us_ if _we_ didn't make the decisions together."

"Doc – "

"Shut up!" Marta is working herself up into a frenzy. It's the end of a really long day during which her adrenaline has been coursing almost nonstop. She is exhausted and worn out. And ironically, that's feeding her fury. " _I'm_ the one who warned you in Manila when those cops were coming, _I'm_ the one who killed that Larx agent and _I'm_ the one who got us on that boat and saved your life when you were bleeding out."

Cross nods. "Doc –"

"No," she snaps. "If Nicky agrees and we don't find what you want on a computer, we call it quits. _You_ don't break into _anything_. We move to an island somewhere and we keep our heads down."

"Marta," he says seriously, "If we corner Byers -"

"If we corner a snake it will strike," she shouts. Because too many things can go wrong with _that_ scenario and it could actually get him killed. And while she's whined (because she knows it's whining) about not being able to survive on her own, it's being without Aaron that bothers her more than being alone.

She'd always had difficulty being indifferent to Aaron; the other Outcome agents had been numbers and routines to her. But Aaron flirted with her, talked to her, tried to draw her out. She knew him as Five, but she _knew_ him. It was Aaron she'd thought about when the police had queried her about what happened in the labs in the aftermath of Donald Foite's rampage.

With that she pounds her fist on his chest; the hard blow is enough to get a grunt of pain from him. He quickly grabs her wrist, spins her around until her back is pinned against his body, his other arm tightly draped across her chest, holding her in place.

"Doc! Listen to me!" he says firmly, but Marta is struggling, kicking back at his shins, trying to break free. "Jesus," he swears furiously. "Doc!"

He lets go of her, perhaps unwilling to trap her or hold her against her will. She turns around and slaps him hard across the face. She immediately regrets it, instantly feels remorseful. He doesn't react to the slap though, except to stare at her with something akin to…fascination.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. There's an irrepressible gleam in his eyes, reminiscent of the flirtatious agent she'd seen every few months at Sterisyn Morlanta. And oh my God, if that's amusement, she's going to _kill_ him.

Marta feels flushed, warm. She shakes her head, lips pursed together; she refrains from shouting at him again.

"You're hot when you're mad, Doc."

One minute they're facing each other. The next, she's in his arms and they're kissing furiously, tearing clothes off in a frenzy. It was always headed this way; though Marta hesitates for a moment, recalls something that had occurred to her in the aftermath of their earlier _coitus interruptus_. While Aaron is unbuttoning her pants, Marta looks over at the desk against the wall, at the packet Nicky tossed onto the keyboard earlier.

She's not sure if she should be embarrassed or grateful.

Nicky left a condom.

* * *

Nicky finishes her bowl of _mì xá xíu_ , an egg noodle soup with thinly sliced BBQ pork and a savory pork-based broth and leaves cash on the table. She gets up, heads back to the flat entrance. Inside the stairwell, she glances at her watch. She told Cross two hours; still a good half hour before she should head back to the safe room. She sighs, sits down on the steps facing the door.

If he's managed to grovel sufficiently, Cross is getting laid. Nicky wonders if she crossed a line earlier, leaving the condom. For all she knows, Marta is on birth control of some sort and doesn't need protection. But despite the physical tactility between them, Nicky kept getting the sense that they weren't lovers, not sexually any way. It's moot: the tension and intimacy between Cross and Shearing – and the emotionally charged and adrenaline fuelled day – can culminate in only one result.

Actually, Nicky amends, they're either making the beast with two backs or Marta is sobbing her eyes out.

Nicky shakes her head, wondering how the hell Marta Shearing has survived this long, even with Cross to protect her.

She doesn't remember when she was ever that fragile. She's been a soldier since she was a little kid. Granted, a soldier with means, but even so, Nicolette was never allowed to show weakness. The only time in her life when she felt safe being vulnerable was her interlude with David Webb. Maybe that was why they'd been drawn to each other: because they'd recognized the hidden, helpless core in the other person; and instead of exposing it, they'd sheltered one another.

* * *

 _Then..._

Jason is trembling. Nicky's shaking, too.

That wasn't just sex.

That was something profound.

Something terrifying and sacred.

Even if she could talk right now, there aren't words enough to articulate what she's feeling. Instead, she gently strokes the length of his naked back with one hand, the other still clasped around his neck. Their bodies are spent, satiated.

It takes a few minutes for rapid heartbeats and harsh breathing to recede to something normal. Jason starts to move away, but Nicky's arms wrap around him, holding him in place.

"I'm too heavy," he protests.

"It's not uncomfortable," she responds. She prefers the weight of his body on hers, the heat of his skin warming hers. He shifts a bit so his sprawl isn't burdensome.

"I don't know how I'm going to be able to say your name without giving myself away," she whispers, running her hands through his hair. "They'll know."

He kisses her collarbone, buries his face in the crook of her neck. "Then call me David when we're together," he murmurs. "Jason Bourne is what I do. But David Webb is who I am." He lifts his head, looks down at her, blue eyes penetrating. "My identity's not wrapped in a name."

"Will you stay tonight?" she asks. She can't believe he's here in her bed. It's been months in the making and even though she knew this was where they were headed, it's all she can do not to shriek with delighted laughter.

He lowers his head to kiss her gently on the lips. "After everything I did to get here? I'm not leaving early."

"Jason –"

"David," he corrects gently.

"David."

* * *

Nicky opens her eyes, coming out of the unexpected nap to awareness. She'd been dreaming…no, remembering…and?

She glances at her watch. Five minutes past the deadline she'd imposed for returning.

Something woke her. Something isn't right. Nicky sits still, listening.

She hears a distinctive scraping sound. Someone is picking the lock of the outer door. She reaches into her bag, pulls out the Glock and stands on the step, lifting the gun. Pressing the trigger's inner lever, she disengages the first of the gun's three safety mechanisms. What differentiates her weapon from the Sig Sauer P229s that Bourne and Cross favor is the passive safety feature which allows her to fire immediately without manipulating an external lever; and she needs fast if she's to survive. Nicky controls her breathing, maintains a steady inhale/exhale rhythm while she keeps her eyes focused on the door.

Even though part of her hopes it's him – that tightness in her chest, that fluttering in her stomach – Nicky's still surprised when the door opens to reveal Bourne. Jason sees the gun and steps back quickly; sees it's her, and straightens, slowly stepping inside the vestibule.

They stare at one other, Nicky with her gun steady, pointed directly at him. He holds his hands out, palms up in capitulation.

"Why are you here?" she demands in a low voice.

Even though her pistol is trained on him, he shows neither fear nor anger. It's an empty threat and they both know it.

"I don't know."


	12. Chapter 12

They face one another for a few tense moments, then Nicky lowers her gun, tucks it behind her back.

"What are you doing down here?" he asks curiously.

"Cross and Shearing are working out a disagreement. I'm about to go back up."

She turns and starts up the steps when he speaks.

"What do I need to know, Nicky?"

She stops in her tracks, but won't turn around to look at him.

"About?"

"Why do I call you 'Nicky'? You said you conditioned me to protect you. Why?"

Nicky contemplates the floor, doesn't answer. Then she sighs. "In addition to logistics and meds, I was your primary handler. Every asset had one. We worked closely together."

"How closely?" His voice is rough.

Oh God, she hates the tightness in her throat, as if her windpipe were closing in, blocking all air, suffocating her. She schools her features into an impassive mask, wipes all traces of feeling from her senses, and turns around, telling him in as cold a voice as she can:

"Close enough that when Treadstone ordered the Professor to kill his handler, you asked me to make sure that never happened to me."

He blinks trying to piece together what she's saying. She can see the struggle, the anger on his face as he tries to remember…and can't.

"He was the asset you killed in France in the countryside. Tall, dark-haired. Glasses."

"…Look at what they make you give," Bourne murmurs softly, dazedly.

"What?"

Bourne shakes his head, as if trying to clear the memory. "What did you do?"

"I used second order conditioning and operant conditioning. I had you associate me with something that gave you pleasure, made you feel safe; once the conditioned and unconditioned stimuli became paired, I implemented positive reinforcement when you protected me, and negative reinforcement when you tried to hurt me. Hypnotic suggestibility and repetition so it stuck."

His eyes are narrowed, dangerous. Nicky understands. As far as _this_ Jason Bourne knows, she fucked with his mind, too.

She hates it. _Hates_ being lumped in with the inhumane machine that destroyed David Webb to make Jason Bourne. But even if she withholds everything else, he needs to know why he's compelled toward her.

"How long?"

"Six months." She paused. "You had headaches and light sensitivity. And nightmares. I never knew if it was the protocol or the latent effect of the drugs Treadstone had been administering. Marta wasn't able to say definitively."

"The drugs," he says decisively.

Her eyebrows rise in query.

"That asset – the Professor? – he asked me if I had headaches. Said he had them too, all the time. And lights hurt him. He didn't say anything about nightmares, though." He takes a breath, looks at her. "What else?"

Nicky tilts her head, raises her brows, as if in query. "Why are you here?"

It's so painful. Neither of them can or want to answer the questions posed. Because the truth won't set them free.

"You should go," she says quietly. _Please go. Please go._

Nicky turns around, heads back upstairs, aware of Bourne following behind her. On the landing, she stands to one side of the door.

"Cross." Nicky calls out. "It's Parsons. And…Bourne."

"Roger that," Cross responds from the other side.

Nicky unlocks the door and steps in, Jason behind her. Cross is seated on the futon, his Sig 229R resting on his thigh. His hair is damp, brushed back, and he's in fresh clothes. Nicky notices that when Bourne enters behind her, Cross' hand slides over the gun, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Behind her, she can sense Bourne's immediate tension.

 _God save me from alpha males_ , she thinks.

"At ease," she says firmly.

Cross moves the gun to the futon, breaks eye contact with Bourne and turns his attention to Marta, who is emerging from the bathroom. She's in clean clothes too; jeans and white linen pullover, her wet hair pulled back from a flushed face. It's hard to tell if she's blushing or if it's the heat from her shower. Nicky pretends not to notice.

"Well?" Cross asks.

He wants to know if she's agreed to his plan.

"No," Nicky answers, shaking her head. "No. We're under their radar, we're out of sight. We stay that way."

There's a flare of disappointment in his eyes, simultaneous with Marta's trembling sigh of relief. Cross looks back at Bourne. "I don't suppose you have anything else on the Beta programs you gave Landy?"

"What's a Beta program?" Bourne inquires.

"It's the name attached to programs like Treadstone and Blackbriar and every other variation of the Make-A-Super-Soldier Foundation. Drugs, psychological and physical reconditioning."

Nicky glances behind her. Bourne has take position by the door. He frowns, digesting this new bit of information. "It went beyond Treadstone and Blackbriar?"

Cross gives him a look like, _Are you kidding?_ "You guys were the ground work to figure out what could be done and what went wrong. I was part of the the next step to figure out what to correct."

Bourne's eyes are stormy. Nicky takes a breath. For everything he went through, for everything he lost, to now know it went far beyond what he'd originally surmised. "I gave Landy everything I got."

"Where'd you get the file?"

"Vosen's office."

"CIA Deputy Director Noah Vosen," Nicky supplies.

"Aaron." Marta infuses that one word with steel refusal.

Cross stares the three other people in the room. "Shit," he snaps, frustrated, getting up. Bourne shifts immediately from his position at the door, goes into physically defensive mode: both crouch, ready to spring.

"Stop," Nicky snaps. Her nerves are taut and this room is way too small for two larger than life super soldiers, to say nothing of the other woman (who just got lucky if the missing condom packet is any indication) lurking by the bathroom. "You can all stay, or get out and leave me the fuck alone with some peace. But you're not going to trash this room because your testosterone levels are escalating."

Cross gives her a look. "Were you always this bossy?"

"I was always this assertive, yes. That's why I was put in charge of managing assets like you."

Cross scowls. "I need to check some coordinates, then we're out of here." He walks past Nicky to take Marta's hand, pulling her to the other side of the room. Their duffel bag is on the mattress. He rifles through, pulls out a tablet. Marta settles herself next to him, her body perfectly adjacent: shoulder, hips, knees aligned with his.

Nicky turns to Bourne. "I'm safe," she enunciates carefully. _You can go. You should go. Please go before I completely break down._

He seems hesitant, as if waiting for something.

"Jason, you have to stop ghosting me," Nicky says softly, forcing the words out. Words she doesn't really want to stay. "I helped you and I'm willing to do this penance, but…you have to stop following me. You're putting a target on me every time you come to me. You know _why_ you do it now. You don't have to do it anymore."

 _I need you to go away. I need you to never come back, not unless you're David Webb again._

Jason Bourne is so impossible to read; but Nicky looks for his tells, the slight tic in his check that he's grinding his teeth; the tense set to shoulders. He starts to say something but is forestalled by Cross' utterance.

"Shit."

Nicky turns. Cross is staring grimly at his screen. Marta looks distraught. Cross turns his tablet around, showing Nicky an image.

 _Fuck_.

It's an image from earlier that night – of Nicky and Marta together, walking away from the hotel. Their faces are visible.

"This just went out on Interpol's site," Cross informs them. "This is not random. This is Byers."

"Damn it," whispers Nicky.

"We're targets," Marta utters despairingly.

"We already were." Nicky shakes her head. "But now there's a connection between Treadstone and Outcome."

"And I'm target number one," Bourne mutters.

"Yeah, don't flatter yourself too much," Aaron snaps. "Byers isn't exactly my biggest fan either."

"Who is Byers?" Bourne asks.

"He's the puppet master who owns all these programs. Treadstone, Outcome – his babies. They rolled all of them under NRAG with him in charge. You wanna blame someone for making you what you are now? Byers," answers Cross.

"How can you be sure Byers is running this?" Nicky demands.

Cross gives her an exasperated look. "This is him." He gestures to the women. "Now he knows you two are together, and he knows that I'd never leave her –" he points to Marta – "and he's probably figured out you –" he points to Bourne, "might be nearby because of her." He points to Nicky.

Nicky wants to snarl. "Don't presume."

Cross ignores her. "So if you were Byers and two women affiliated with programs that blew up just surfaced, what would you do? Especially if those two women have links to fugitives from those programs?"

Bourne looks from Nicky to Marta.

Cross nods. "That's right. I'd go after them, too."

Bourne runs his hand through his hair. "He'll have assets on the ground as soon as he can. If they've released this to Interpol, it's to make sure your faces are plastered at every immigration checkpoint in the next few hours and cut you off."

Cross turns to Nicky. "Still 'no' on going after Byers?"

She glares at him. She doesn't like her hand to be forced in making decisions. _Should never have answered that email_ , she thinks.

"How do we get out of here?" Marta wonders.

"Private jet charter," Nicky says definitively.

They all turn to her.

"When you fly private charter, you check in with Fixed Based Operators for your flight. At an international airport, they'll drive you right through security to your aircraft. Immigration and customs can be completed before the flight, or there's a private jet terminal at larger airport for those functions. But at smaller airports, officials will make a special visit to meet the flight. You get escorted directly to and from the plane. You don't wait in any lines, you don't go through any public checkpoints."

In other words, there aren't cameras zooming in on them, people walking through the lines looking for them, zealous customs and immigration officials studying their passports, looking at their faces. It's ideal.

"Great," Cross enthuses sarcastically. "Now where do we find 50 or 60 large to pay for a private charter?"

"Try a hundred grand," Nicky corrects. Nicky glances at her watch. It's midnight. God, how is it midnight already? But that works in her favor.

Walking over to the desk, Nicky reaches into the bag hanging off the chair, and pulls out a surprisingly outdated flip phone. When she is connected to her call, she adopts a posh British accent that takes the others by surprise.

"Heidi Parish, please. Yes, this is Alexandra Seward." There is a pause. Then: "Heidi, darling! It's Alex. I'm in Ho Chi Minh City, and darling I saw the most _extraordinary_ set of sculptures this afternoon, perfect for the Paris flat. There are two of them. I can have them ready to ship immediately. Darling, you want these _now,_ I promise. You do? Perfect. Tell me who's going to be at the flat and I'll get the pieces ready to move. I'll send the information and invoice to Michael after I've purchased them. Is he still managing the accounting? It'll be 600, darling. I know. Isn't it wonderful how cheap things are here? But I promise you, they're high quality. Excellent. All right darling, I have to go to bed soon! _Au revoir, chérie_!"

Nicky presses the END button on her phone. "I have a ride at Tân Sơn Nhất tomorrow morning at 0600." She looks at Marta. "You want a ride to Paris, come with me. Otherwise, you're on your own. You're going to need to change your hair. There's dye under the sink in the bathroom." She looks at Cross. "I can hide her. I _can't_ hide you. You can rendezvous with her in Paris." She doesn't look at Bourne or address him.

The other three stare at her in stupefaction. Nicky does not deign to offer an explanation, going to the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She leans over the tiny sink, looks at herself in the mirror. Dark hair, pale face. Nothing staring back at her is familiar. Opening the undersink cabinet, Nicky reaches in and searches through several boxes of hair dye until she finds the shade she wants.

Forty five minutes later, she reaches over to turn on the shower, recalls with some childish glee the looks on their faces when she placed that call.

 _Screw them. They don't need to know everything._

She scowls, irritated when she realizes Cross and Shearing used all the hot water.

 _Was this fucking day ever going to end?_


	13. Chapter 13

When Marta arrives at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport at 5:30 am, she's sweating. It's not just the humidity and heat (already!) that feels overwhelming, it's also the strain of trying to remember everything Nicky and Aaron drilled into her. She's operating on fumes: there had been no time for sleep between dyeing her hair (hello copper) and memorizing details of where to meet Nicky, and later, where to meet Aaron.

Bourne had left after Nicky provided Aaron with the rendezvous point in Paris. Just got up, opened the door, and walked out. Not a word. While she'd started in some surprise, and Aaron had been momentarily distracted, Nicky Parsons had soldiered on with her instructions, indifferent, rigid, determinedly calm.

Aaron had implied that Nicky was someone special to Bourne. She'd assumed Aaron had been projecting his own feelings for and about her onto the Bourne/Nicky scenario.

Because Bourne doesn't behave like Nicky is important to him; he always keeps his distance, is always so stony-faced. Marta could see there was _clearly_ very deep tension between them, something fraught and…tragic? underlying their interactions. But she's also caught an expression on Bourne's face from time to time when he looks at Nicky, particularly when the other woman isn't paying attention: the confusion, the concern, the…yearning? She doesn't know what to make of it.

Aaron hadn't been pleased about being separated from her (surprise). She was less keen on it, but even she knows that with Byers on the hunt for them again, Nicky's offer –this bizarro world offer in which Nicky Parsons has access to a private plane – is the only viable choice.

Between Aaron and (and a newly blonde) Nicky telling her what to do, it was like she was a kindergartener going to her first day of school, with Mommy and Daddy taking turns informing her where to go, what to say, and who to talk to.

The taxi ride from District 11 to Ho Chi Minh City had been nerve wracking this morning; apart from wondering if her driver had suicidal intent, she had been on her own, for the first time in over a year. It felt strange, not to turn to Aaron, not to have him guiding their path or decisions. And honestly…it felt good. It felt good to be her again, to be –if not exactly independent, then self-sufficient if only for the moment. Even so, she'd been stressed by the traffic, the incessant weaving in and out of mopeds, motorbikes and other cars without care for safety.

The International Terminal is a glass and steel modern facility, and it is crowded. Marta studied the terminal map Nicky showed her last night: there were two terminals, one for domestic travel, the other for international. To depart internationally, a passenger has to go through Customs and Immigration; but Marta knows she's to go directly to the lounge for the handling agent overseeing their flight – Private Air Aviation.

Marta stops in the terminal, slightly confused. It's one thing to look at a 2D drawing of a map; another to be in the bustling, hectic location.

She stops a janitor who is sweeping around a refuse can. " _Excuser moi, monsieur_ ," she says, pointing to her piece of paper. " _Veuillez donner moi un peu d'aide? Je cherche Private Air Aviation. Où est leur office?_ "

The man does not appear to speak French, but he looks at the paper she's pointing out, sees the name.

He gestures towards the far back, past several shops and what appear to be business lounges. Marta nods with a small smile. " _Merci, monsieur._ "

Marta keeps her head down, moves as quickly as she can. She is nearing Private Air Aviation's lounge when she stops abruptly, heart in her throat. A lean man in a dark suit is talking to an agent behind the desk, showing her a picture – even from this distance, Marta can see it's the photo of her and Nicky from the evening before. She recognizes from his manner and stance that he's someone to be avoided; he's not an asset per se, but definitely someone who's hunting for her. She doesn't know if he's Byers' or another agency's.

 _Oh God_ , she thinks, hiding behind a column. _Where do I go?_

She looks around, trying to control her panic. The flight is set to depart at 6:00 am. Nicky had instructed her to go to here, where she'd be met by an agent who'd take her to the plane.

She could wait for the man to leave but how can she go to the desk? That agent has now seen her face. Even with the severe copper bob cut, it wouldn't take much to place her features. Marta is about to veer right, away from the lounge when a smartly dressed woman suddenly steps directly in front of her.

Marta pulls up short, drawing in a stuttered gasp. She's been found out.

"Madame Sevigné?" the young woman inquires brightly in French. "I'm Caroline, with Private Air Aviation. I've been waiting for you. I recognized you from your passport photo. Everything was faxed over this morning and we're all set with immigrations and customs. Will you follow me so I can take you to your plane?"

Marta stares at her, wide eyed. She nods mutely, not trusting her voice. She glances quickly around Caroline's shoulder to see the desk agent shaking her head and pointing the man towards a different direction. He looks frustrated, starts looking around. Marta quickly jerks back so Caroline's blocking his view.

She turns and walks with Caroline. Her heart is hammering and she's dying for air, but trying to get herself under control so she doesn't hyperventilate. Caroline takes Marta through an entry way that leads out of the terminal to a small sedan. She gestures for her to get in. Marta complies, exhaling in relief once she's inside the confines of the car. Caroline takes the driver's seat and they start forward, driving across the runway toward a smaller area where Marta can see a fleet of jets and smaller aircraft. Caroline is cheerfully noting various aircraft, ignoring or not noticing that Marta is still silent; maybe she's used to people ignoring her?

They pull up to a sleek jet, painted white with three horizontal pin stripes running the length of the plane, eight round windows above the striping. Marta blinks.

"This is one of our Gulfstream G550s," chirps Caroline in French. "It's a heavy jet with ultra long range capacity."

"I'm sorry," Marta mumbles in the same language. "I don't understand what that means."

"Ho Chi Minh City to Charles de Gaulle airport is approximately 6347 miles. This jet can travel without refueling for 7800 miles. That means you won't need a layover; you'll go directly to Paris."

Of course, thinks Marta. Any stop increases the likelihood of discovery.

Caroline gets out and runs around to her side of the car, but Marta is already opening it and getting out. They are directly at the steps leading to the jet. Caroline hands Marta's duffel bag to a waiting handler. She gestures to the steps leading up to the plane with a bright smile.

" _Bon voyage, Madame_ ," she says.

Marta glances around furtively, heart still in her throat, wondering if she's going to see someone in a suit, or worse, someone who moves in a particular fashion, headed directly at her. But there is no one; only baggage handlers, refueling agents, other employees of Private Air Aviation.

Marta goes up the stairs, at the top of which, a smartly dressed pilot greets her with a smile. "Madame, welcome aboard."

She nods at him, still not trusting her voice; he gestures to her right.

When Marta enters the cabin, she doesn't know where to look first. It's luxury on a scale she's never seen. The cabin runs about fifteen meters in length, almost two and a half meters wide. White dominates the interior: white walls, plush and wide white leather seats, white orchid arrangements on several of the tables. Seating arrangements for – she counts – sixteen people line both sides of the plane in different configurations: there are seats facing each other across large square tables; side-by-side two seaters facing each other with a long ottoman in between; a long, light grey leather sofa with matching colored bolsters and yellow throw pillows. Next to the sofa is a long, glass topped wood sideboard, over which is perched a large flat screen TV, bearing two bowls of green apples and bananas. The sideboard is opposite a configuration of two side by side seats facing two more seats over a wood table that matches the sideboard.

Marta takes the window seat toward the back at one of the side-by-side configurations. She drops her shoulder bag onto the seat next to her and looks out the window.

" _Madame Sevigné, veuillez-vous quelque choses à boire?_ "

Marta looks up at the pert brunette in a pressed dark grey and white jacket and tailored pants. She shakes her head. The brunette smiles widely at her. " _Je m'apelle Sophie, madame. Je suis à votre disposition si vous avez besoin de n'importe de quoi."_

" _Merci_ ," Marta says, slightly awed and overwhelmed.

She is _not_ dressed for this flight, she thinks, looking down at the casual linen shirt and jeans. She should be dressed like – well, like _that_ woman.

Outside the window, a chic woman is pulling a Louis Vuitton roller board, escorted by a tall man in Private Air Aviation uniform. They are speaking animatedly. The woman is flawlessly turned out: stylish heels with the distinctive Christian Louboutin red lacquered soles, and dressed in a slate blue Chanel sleeveless bouclé dress with a mesh paneled rounded collar and flirty skirt. Big, round Jackie-O sunglasses cover nearly a third of her face and a white, wide brim hat covers her head. Marta watches her advance, thinking she is heading to one of the other private planes; but when the woman stops at their Gulfstream and shakes hands with the man, Marta sits upright. The woman starts up the steps, and Marta catches her breath.

The elegant woman is Nicky Parsons, and when she enters the cabin, Marta can't stop staring. Nicky removes the hat, revealing a blond, chin length wavy bob. She keeps the glasses on.

The pilot, stands at the cabin door to greet her. "Mrs. Seward, we're ready to go," he says respectfully.

"Thank you Captain." Nicky nods at him with a careless gesture of _noblesse oblige_ as she makes her way gracefully toward the seat opposite Marta.

Marta stares. Nicky buckles herself in, nonchalantly opens a bottle of sparkling water left on the table.

Marta can no longer contain her curiosity. "Mrs. Seward?"

Nicky settles her hat on the empty seat next to her and takes off her sunglasses. She looks at Marta, her bright red lipstick drawing attention to that generous mouth, which curves upward.

"No one gets to keep their identities." Nicky smiles mockingly.

Marta adds this bit of information with Nicky's earlier comment to having had maids – multiple – when they were in the taxi. So Nicky didn't grow up in _some_ affluence. Judging by the couture turnout sitting across from her and the visible trappings of luxury in which they are ensconced, Nicky Parsons – Seward? – is filthy rich. Which begs the question: if she has this much at her disposal, why isn't she on some private island somewhere, living free?

Marta's certain her questions are vividly apparent on her face. Nicky lifts her hand, gesturing at the plane. "This is a one time Willy Wonka golden ticket. It's a deus ex machina come to save the day at the last minute. But it won't take me off a kill list."

Sophie returns, asks Nicky if she wants anything in flawless English; Nicky demurs. Sophie informs them in both English and French that they're ready to take off and asks them to prepare. She takes their loose items rearward to a closet, where she gently puts away Nicky's hat and hangs Marta's bag.

Marta is dazed. This is nothing within the purview of her experience. As Sophie walks towards the front, she pauses once more by their table and leans towards Nicky.

"Mrs. Seward, there's a call for you from Mrs. Parish."

The phone on the wall next to Nicky rings. She reaches for it, adopts that cut glass British accent.

"Heidi, darling! Yes, the items were packaged and on their way to Paris. I'll let you know where they need to go, but I do think if we moved the Breuer chair in the library, they'd go beautifully in the corners. You said the flat is ready to receive the items? All right darling. When are you coming to Paris? No, then we'll miss, darling. Yes. Soon, I promise. _Gros bisous_ , Heidi."

When Nicky leans back in her seat, she puts her sunglasses back on; but not before Marta can see the sheen of tears in her eyes, or the vulnerable cast to her mouth.

"Who is Heidi Parish?" Marta asks softly.

She thinks Nicky will ignore the question. But after a small pause, Nicky says: "My mother."

There is a wealth of unsaid things in those words; a deep intonation of sadness and yearning.

"And Alexandra Seward?"

"My mother's decorator. Who actually is British, sounds exactly like that, looks exactly like this," Nicky gestures to her bespoke wardrobe, "and travels around the world getting things for my mom."

Marta's confused. So is Alexandra Seward a disguise that Nicky adopts to travel at will? Or is there actually a real woman named Alexandra Seward whose identity Nicky co-opts? The phone exchange with her mother last night suggests a very practiced protocol.

But Nicky turns her head and looks out the jet's window, effectively cutting off any other attempt at communication.

 _Who is Nicky Parsons_? Marta ponders. _And what on_ _ **earth**_ _did she give up to help Jason Bourne?_


	14. Chapter 14

Marta looks up from one of the magazines she found tucked into the pocket next to her seat and turns to Nicky. "What?"

Nicky's brows rise. "I didn't say anything."

"You've been staring at me for fifteen minutes."

Nicky is looking at her curiously. "I'm trying to understand you."

"The better to put me in a box?" Marta suggests.

"Maybe," Nicky acknowledges.

They're six hours into a thirteen hour flight; and during all that time, they've not spoken a word to one another until now. Within a few minutes of reaching altitude, Marta had fallen asleep, realizing her first moment of safety since she and Aaron had met with Nicky. With that sense of security, she'd asked if Nicky needed her for anything; when the other woman shook her head, Marta had simply curled up, the events of the previous day (had it only been a day?!) catching up with her.

She had nodded off to the image of cool, imperturbable Nicky Parsons leaning back in her seat, looking bored; and had woken up five hours to the same. How was it possible that she was completely rumpled and disheveled while Nicky still looked ridiculously fresh and dewy?

It's like Nicky is superhuman, unflappably serene. Marta longs for a fraction of that confidence. She'd been covered with a cashmere blanket when she'd awakened; Nicky or Sophie? Didn't matter; she loved the soft grey cover now draping her legs.

"Which part? Me? Sterisyn Morlanta? Aaron?"

"Whatever." Nicky shrugs, a study of careful indifference. But Marta can see the deep intelligence in those brown eyes. A clearly analytical mind to go with what's slowly being revelead to be a deeply faceted woman.

"Why?" Marta asks. "Apart from pigeonholing me, what do you get?"

"You guys came to me, threw my life into chaos, and I had to call my mom to bail me out after observing cone of silence for over a year. I haven't had to do that since I was seventeen, when I stole one of the cars for a joyride."

"You didn't have to meet us."

"You guys are on the run. What's Cross thinking that he'd reach out another fugitive? For all he knew, I'd use you guys as leverage or a bargaining chip to get _my_ life back."

Marta is unsettled. She never thought of that. She wonders if Aaron had. "Would you?"

Nicky's gaze is steely. "There's nothing left in the life I had before that I want back. But you. Cross wants _you_ to have your life back. I keep thinking about what he said. He doesn't care about himself. But he wants _you_ to be free. Enough that he was willing to risk his and your safety. Why?"

Marta doesn't respond for a few minutes.

"You said you'd kill me if I kept talking science."

Nicky waves her hand. "Papal dispensation. Go."

A faint half smile touches Marta's lips. "Neurology." Marta pauses, wondering how to proceed. "When I was thirteen I decided I needed to understand the brain."

"I cannot even imagine the conversations you had with your friends."

Marta shakes her head. "I didn't have a lot of friends. I was a little intense and focused. It made talking to people…difficult sometimes."

"Why the brain?"

"Do you have any idea how magnificent is the brain? How mysterious and curious and heartbreaking?"

Marta waits to see the smirk that commonly crosses someone's expression when she talks like this. Nicky, who doesn't have a problem being scornful as the moment requires, is not mocking. She is listening, leaning forward. Engaged. It gives Marta impetus to keep talking.

"People talk about how we only use ten percent of our brain. They imagine what we could accomplish if we used more than that? But I'm not interested in what the brain can accomplish. I'm interested in what causes the brain to die. What degrades its cellular composition, what causes it to malfunction, and in doing so, impairs the body?"

"What happened at thirteen?" Nicky inquires with a flash of insight.

"My mother died of complications from Huntington's Disease."

It hadn't been enough that she'd been awkward and shy, had difficulty making and keeping friends; there had also been the added challenges of helping her sister care for their deteriorating mother over a number of years that should have been childhood and adolescence. There had been the accompanying embarrassment and despair of trying to keep their father sober enough to keep his job so they had health insurance while they'd tried to manage everything else.

"I'm not familiar with that," Nicky states.

"It's a degenerative and fatal disease for which there is no cure. It's been described as having Parkinsons, ALS – Lou Gehrig's Disease – and Alzheimers, all at once. It's caused by a breakdown of the brain's nerve cells. It manifests between your thirties and fifties – first, tremors, faint shaking, mood swings, changes in your mental acuity. After onset, the disease worsens over a ten to twenty-five year period. It takes away your ability to walk, talk, eat, function. Eventually you die from pneumonia, or heart disease or some other complication because you've lost all facility and use of your mind and body. It's not like cancer where you actually die from cancer. With Huntington's, you die from complications brought on by the illness."

Marta can recite these facts now without pain and anger raging through her. "My mother's illness actually progressed quite rapidly, maybe ten years from the time she first noticed symptoms. Toward the end, she had no control over any part of her body. She was…shaking so hard, her body thrashing around, her muscle control was all gone. She'd choke. On the good days, she barely remembered who she was or who we were. The bad days were when she knew what was happening to her." Marta's voice slows, takes on a dreamy quality: "When she died she was so peaceful. Not moving. Just silent and still. And gone."

"I'm sorry," Nicky offers gently.

Marta nods. "I was in pre-med when I realized it wasn't medicine I needed to go into. It was biochemistry. And neurochemistry. As a doctor, I could only treat with what existed. But those two disciplines? I could study the chemical processes and transformations of the body. Everything from DNA to cell development to proteins and parts. I could examine the connections between organic compounds in the nervous system and how they affected neural processes. So I got dual degrees."

Her sister had come to the graduation ceremony, the only member of their admittedly small family to celebrate her achievement. Their father, by then, had been long dead, the fatality of a drunk driving bender.

"I could have spent a lifetime working on things in a lab, earning my way to something that could make a difference. But Sterisyn Morlanta came to me five years after I'd been working on research that looked at how gene and antibody treatments could remove malformed proteins in the brain. It was access to resources that were unprecedented. It wasn't just the science, Nicky. Yeah. I was there because the science was amazing and I really thought I was contributing to keeping our country safe. Save lives, bring home more of our people. All of that."

She can see Nicky struggling to stop herself from snorting. Marta gets it. Even to her ears it sounds insanely naïve. Who is that idealistic and stupid?

"There's not enough funding for Huntington's research because less than thirty thousand people in the US are afflicted, and maybe two hundred thousand more are at risk of inheriting it. It's a family disease: you stand a 50/50 chance if your parent has or had HD. Part of my deal with them was also that I could work on my projects on the side, with full funding." She leans forward, eyes wide and brilliant with conviction. "What we did at Sterisyn Morlanta? What we learned, what we created to improve physical and psychological repair and recovery? It put us light years ahead of any research that's ever been done – or even concieved."

Marta knows she's talking fast now; Nicky's not going anywhere, but Marta can't stop herself from rushing through this part, not because of what they accomplished, but because of what was destroyed. "There's no cure for Huntington's or ALS or motor neuron diseases like them, in practice or even in development. But for one really brief moment at Sterisyn Morlanta two years ago, when we'd perfected the chem protocols, I truly believed that a therapy could be possible." Marta's jaw hurts from clenching her teeth. "And then it all burned down along with eight assets and twenty-three people. My colleagues, and a few of whom were my friends."

The memory of the carnage she'd survived no longer causes her to wake up trembling; but it haunts her still, the memory of the screams, the smell of fear, the pleading and begging to live.

Such a contrast to the night a year earlier, the radiant joy and excitement they'd all shared when their team had reviewed the analysis of the chemical tweak they'd administered to test subjects, and had discovered that the new drug had succeeded in rapidly eliminating inert substances in the brain. The drug had corrected the malfunction for making proteins in the brain, reversing the neural cell death caused by the buildup of broken and tangled proteins, and the loss of specific protein channels and receptors at the connections between neurons.

It had been the first glimpse of hope she'd had since the moment she'd witnessed her mother dropping and cracking her favorite tea cup as her shaking had gotten worse. How her mother had wept uncontrollably, less angry and upset over the teacup as over what she'd railed as an unfair curse. Or the moment years later before she'd stopped being able to talk, how her mother had screamed in a fit of delirium that Marta had this nightmare to look forward to? Her poor, suffering mum, who'd embraced her later that day, begging her daughter's forgiveness for the cruel and capricious things her malady-ridden brain spewed.

"How close were you to a cure?"

"Not close at all," Marta explains. "We made some breakthroughs, but I never imagined anything we discovered would be ready to treat in the near future. The chems we created for the agents were custom tailored to their bodies. It wasn't one size fits all. The underlying science, the IP – that's what was valuable. It would have been a few more decades before anything we were doing would have been safe enough or ready for FDA consideration. Two of the agents died from the physical viraling. But I thought…shit. What if I could ensure that some future kid doesn't spend ten years of her life, from the time she's three until she's thirteen, watching her mother slur her words, lose control of her bowels, die of pnemonia, drowning in her own body because it had failed her in every way?"

Nicky is watching her, silent, assessing. Then: "Marta, you said there's a 50/50 chance of inheriting Huntington's if your parent had it."

Nicky is no dummy, Marta thinks, looking out into the blackness beyind her porthole window. She knows the exact moment when Nicky realizes; it's the sudden, indrawn breath, the tension emanating from the other side. She turns her gaze back toward Nicky, fully prepared to be defensive.

But she doesn't see pity in those chocolate brown eyes. She sees the deepest flare of sadness, of genuine sympathy.

"Does Cross know?" Despite her neutral expression, Nicky's eyes are reddening.

Marta sighs. "He says we're all dying already; my schedule's just a bit more accelerated. One of the nice things about that brain of his is how quickly he accepts a situation without the bullshit that goes into wishing and hoping things are different. The tremendous thing about knowing your date of death – because I know approximately how long I've got once the symptoms emerge – is how freeing it is."

"He's okay with it?"

Marta shakes her head. "No. He's not okay with it. He's accepted it. He's prepared to do whatever I need when the time comes."

Nicky's eyebrows soar. Marta's laugh is a little hollow. "Oh God, I'd never do that to him!" _Ask him to euthanize her?_ He would. He totally would. Because he loves her. But she'd never ask such a thing of him, never saddle such a burden on him.

"I didn't mean for that to sound dramatic," Marta wheezes, amused. "I meant…Aaron's committed to see this through the end, but he's also agreed to what I want. And what I want isn't him suffering."

They'd talked about a hospice facility in Oregon she knew of, one where she'd be able to die with peace and dignity.

"Aaron is protective. But it's more about the years he thinks I should have, the ones he doesn't want me to miss out on." Marta pushes back in her seat, enjoying the dual luxuries of plush leather and soft cashmere. "Up until we met you and Aaron suggested he wanted me to 'be free, get my life back,' I hadn't thought about how I am most alive when I'm with him. He wants me for however long we can be together. And after last night – thanks for the condom, by the way - I realize it's all I want or need for what I've got left."

Marta's smile is rueful. "It's funny, Nicky. My mother's symptoms manifested when she was a year older than me. I'll be gone in at most, two more decades, my body and my mind having been destroyed long before then. But Aaron…the way his body works now, the cellular regeneration, the way he heals and how his physical and psychological degradation have slowed down? There's every possibility he could live sixty years beyond me."

"Sixty years…without you." There is something so bleak about Nicky's voice it draws Marta's attention.

Marta nods. Even though she's made peace with dying from Huntington's, some things still wound and hurt. "He accepts that, too," Marta whispers. "I'd like to think, though, Nicky that while he'll always cherish me, eventually – because he'll have length of years – he'll find someone else who deserves him, have a chance to be happy, at peace." There's satisfaction in knowing he'll outlive their hunters, be able to spit on their graves. "So it wasn't all for naught, if at least Aaron lives."

The haunted look in Nicky's eyes is disconcerting. "Surviving isn't the same as living."

Nicky turns her head, looks away, her jaw tight. Silence descends again and Marta's about to go back to her magazine when Nicky speaks, her voice taut and resigned. "I have some laptops that belonged to Treadstone and Blackbriar. We'd…I'd been smuggling out decommisioned hard drives and laptops for a few years."

Marta stares at Nicky, who's still refusing to look at her, who's still pretending to be unaffected.

"It's not enough to be in their network. Cross is going to have to learn how those networks function, the protocols we used."

"You're going to help him," Marta breathed.

Nicky looks at her now, those dark eyes luminous. "No promises, Marta. But I'll give him a fighting chance."

Marta's not sure how to feel. She had been relieved last night by Nicky's refusal to help. She figured she could talk him into abandoning his plan altogether.

"He's not wrong in assuming Byers will back down to protect his other projects. There's no way Blackbriar or Outcome were the last of the line."

Marta doesn't speak; looks down at her hands, worrying that fine cashmere blanket. "It's a stupid, dangerous plan," she whispers.

"Yeah, it is. Most plans are. But I can make it less stupid and dangerous."

"Why? Again I have to ask you, what's in it for you?"

"Redemption." Nicky's response is as enigmatic as the expression on her face.

Marta looks out the window, not willing to commit. Then, off cuff: "I don't suppose you'd care to explain the bit about your mother, her decorator named Alex, and this plane?"

Nicky tilts her head, looks at Marta with an almost feline expression of satisfaction. "No," Nicky answers shortly and simply. "This was't _quid pro quo_."

"Yeah, well, _sedet, aeternumque sedebit_ ," Marta quips with a shrug. "Can't blame me for trying."

Nicky can't seem to stop the small smile that pulls at her red mouth. Marta folds her legs under, spreading the cashmere over her bare feet. She's going to steal this ridiculously soft blanket, she decides.

Though they retreat back to their silences, it is, surprisingly, companionable.

* * *

***** _sedet, aeternumque sedebit_ means "seated, be seated forever." In other words, stop trying and you'll die.


	15. Chapter 15

The minute they land, Marta knows something's wrong.

She knows because she can see the way Sophie strides from the forward cabin to the rear, an intense expression on her previously cheerful face. She knows because she sees the equally penetrating look on Nicky's face.

"Mrs. Seward, we've received word that Customs and Immigration requires your presence in the main building."

Marta inhales sharply. "But I thought they'd meet us here?"

She completely forgets to speak French. Sophie does not react, walking quickly past their table, going straight to the closet where she hung Marta's bag and put away Nicky's hat. "Yes, Madam, that's normally how it's done. However, French authorities have indicated that Mrs. Seward and Mrs. Sevigné are to disembark and proceed to the airport. An escort will be at the entrance to meet you."

Marta looks at Nicky. Nicky, despite being quite alert, does not look panicked.

"Sophie, arrangements have been made?" she inquires calmly, standing up. To Marta's confusion, Nicky reaches behind to unzip her dress.

Sophie is pulling two garment bags out of the closet. "Yes, Mrs. Seward."

Nicky turns to Marta. "Get out of your clothes."

"What?" Marta stares, mystified as Nicky shrugs out of her dress, taking one of the garment bags Sophie is holding, laying it down on the table between them and unzipping it. She removes a three piece gray and blue outfit. Dropping the jacket and trousers on her chair, she pulls on and buttons up a crisp white cotton shirt with rounded collar.

"Madam, you must hurry," Sophie urges Marta. She unzips the bag she's holding in front of Marta. Inside is another matching uniform, the words "Private Air Aviation" embroidered over the left breast pocket. She lays it down on the table in front of Marta.

Nicky is already pulling on the slacks. Sophie is crouched on the ground, picking up Nicky's discarded dress, draping it on the empty hanger. She tosses Nicky's Louboutin heels into the bottom of the garment bag and zips it up.

 _Of course. For a double PhD, I'm pretty slow_ , Marta chastises herself, pulling her rumpled shirt over her head.

* * *

Since arriving two days ago, they've been holed up in a private mansion in the 7th _arondissement_ , where Sophie had taken them after they'd cleared Immigration and Customs at Charles de Gaulle airport, in guise as private charter airline employees. At the airport, Sophie had hustled them into a car which had driven them to the terminal. Nicky had pulled out two new passports, along with a General Declaration for Private Air Aviation – a company document which declares how many crew members are traveling, along with their details.

While clearing through customs and immigration Marta had seen two women who look like her and Nicky: a couture-dressed blonde in the company of a ginger-haired woman in loose trousers and linen shirt. They were being escorted by two officious looking men and speaking to several customs and immigration officials. Another Private Aviation Air attendant was by their side.

"Nicky," Marta had whispered.

Nicky had looked over. "Keep your head down."

They left quickly, following Sophie as she led them directly to a discreet black sedan. Sophie had deposited them at this elegant _hotel particulier_ , a honey-colored, three story building with sky high ceilings and windows galore. A quiet, capable butler had greeted them, taken their bags and escorted Marta to the third floor, ushering her into a sumptuous room.

Nicky hasn't bothered sharing much in the way of detail: to Marta's inquiries, her answers have been short. The house belongs to a friend. They cannot go to the rendezvous point yet. They need to stay out of sight and hidden until the appointed meeting time.

So they're here in this freaking mansion, Marta ever more intrigued by the mystery of Nicky Parsons.

After receiving Aaron's daily text check-in the night before, Marta had a light meal in her room, then fell asleep, her Circadian rhythm completely thrown off.

When she'd awakened an hour ago, she was informed by the butler that Mrs. Seward had left, but had asked that she remain in the house.

The butler had led her to the sun drenched sitting room, adjacent to a magnificent library, offering her a light meal, which she'd declined in favor of a croissant and coffee.

Marta gets up from the comfortable chaise on which she has been nestled (with the cashmere blanket she stuffed into her duffel bag – much to Nicky's brief amusement), walking to open doors leading out to the gorgeous private garden.

Her phone beeps with an incoming text message.

 **ETA: 14:30 tomorrow.**

Marta sighs in relief when she sees Aaron's text. He is disciplined about communications, checking in only once a day from his burner phone. She does not answer, as per their agreed operating protocol.

It's nearing noon.

 _Where the hell is Nicky?_

* * *

The corporate offices situated at 73 rue de Faubourg St. Honoré are located in a Lutetian limestone building in palest cream. The five story building is classically structured, tall windows on every floor, terraces and balconies aligned in uniformity with the adjacent buildings which serve as the headquarters of several haute couture fashion houses. The elite and expensive neighborhood also houses several embassies, the French Ministry of the Interior and the Élysée Palace, which accommodates the French president.

Nicky strides through the double height, double width doors, blending in with the other fashionably dressed Parisian women returning from _déjeuner_ – their perfectly tailored outfits are appropriately corporate but distinguished by Gallic flair. She's dressed in a simple navy blue linen dress, the fit and flare silhouette set off by a pleated neckline. The severe color and line are softened by the flirty movement of the skirt as she walks. A vintage Hermès scarf is wrapped over her blond hair, and classic Ray Ban Wayfarers hide her eyes.

Nicky flows into the elevator along with phalanx of workers; no one notes her. By the time she reaches her floor, she's the only one left, because this is the executive floor. She exits and pauses in the foyer, looking to her left at the front reception lounge, where two attractive young women are answering phones and making notations. Three people are seated in the reception lounge, a dark-haired woman and two men, one balding, the other whose brown hair is cut short. There's something boyish about the dark haired man's features; but Nicky knows how quickly that face can get hard, those dark blue eyes steely, his entire demeanor chilly and brusque. She drops her head slightly, and does not falter in her step, nor does she draw attention to herself by walking faster. She simply walks to the opposite hall and makes her way to the corner office which overlooks one of Paris' most revered fashion houses.

No one challenges her, no one notices her; no one thinks to demand credentials. She slips into an empty, elegantly appointed office and quickly locks the two doors: the entry she just used, and the other door which leads to an adjoining conference room.

With practiced familiarity, Nicky goes to the electronic console embedded in the panel by the door, presses a few buttons. Electronic shades automatically lower over the windows, darkening the room, while across from the elegant Empire-style desk, a screen lowers. The image flickers for a moment, but then Nicky is able to view the long oval rosewood conference table that's in the adjoining room. The camera is situated to allow her a facing view of the table. In a video conference, she would be addressing a cohort of people looking back at her. But this is a one way feed: she can see and hear them; they cannot see or hear her.

Which is perfectly fine, because a few moments later, one of the receptionists is leading Colonel Eric Byer, and two other people into the room. She remembers seeing them at NRAG but can't remember their names. The woman's name is Mandy or something like that.

Byer looks tired, irritated.

Nicky observes that they all look jet lagged. No doubt they are. They've probably flown all night to get here today. Instead of taking seats, they stand behind the plush, executive chairs.

They do not wait long; a woman walks into the room, her stride purposeful.

* * *

 _Then_

"Tell me something true."

David's soft words breaks the silence between them, barely audible above the roar of the ocean. It's never really dark in Paris as in any other large city. But here, on the beach, the sun having set several hours ago, stars are overhead, shining down on the wide expanse of the ocean.

Nicky sits between David's legs, his arms wrapped around her. A blanket covers their outstretched legs, warding off the evening chill. David's got a jacket on and his body is warm against her back. His face has been resting against her head for most of the last hour. They've been here for a few hours, watching the light of day diminish, immersing themselves in the darkening, deepening night.

During the day, the beach and Coleville-sur-Mer are crowded and busy, as tourists visiting Normandy and the World War II memorials overrun the place. But there are few people left this evening, just locals who enjoy the beach.

"My last name isn't Parsons."

He laughs, startled, delighted by the revelation.

"It's Parish. Still close enough to be church going."

"Why the change?"

"Nicholas Parish."

"The billionaire? The one implicated in the Middle East arms deals ten years ago?"

"Not implicated. Convicted. Federal prison time arms dealer." He hugs her tight. "It was hard to be associated with that name when it was going on. I legally changed my name when I was in college. My mom helped me do it."

"That wasn't a red flag with your clearance at the CIA?"

"It might have been if the then Director who approved my recruitment hadn't been my mother's friend."

"Your mother sounds fascinating."

"That is one word used frequently to describe her, yes."

"You've never talked about her before."

For a moment, Nicky doesn't answer, lifting her face up for his kiss. He kisses her lightly at first, gently; but then deepens his caress, lingering as she presses closer to him. When they part, Nicky turns back around to watch the rushing, roaring waves.

"I love you," she whispers.

His face is close enough to hers that even the brontide rumbling of the water cannot drown out the words or the feeling in them.

"I love you, too," he answers just as softly.

David kisses her hair. When they are together, he does that frequently. "I imagine she must be tough as hell if she had to deal with the fallout of your father's dealings."

"By that point she was used to the matching string of mistresses to go with the lies and the polo ponies so it didn't affect her personally. Notice she never got tarnished with the same brush in the press. They gave her wide berth. Heidi Parish is like that…" she says, nodding toward the ocean. "Beautiful, expansive, enveloping. But don't ever fuck with her because she'll drown your ass."

* * *

Byer and his cohorts turn when the woman enters the room.

Heidi Parish is tall, reedy, and patrician. Dressed in a bespoke pale cream Chanel dress edged in navy blue, a coil of perfect pearls around her throat, she is the epitome of quiet and powerful wealth, a _grande dame._ Her age is uncertain, her face aged but barely lined. At first glance there is little about her that recalls her daughter, except for the eyes. Her features can be only described as haughty: high cheekbones, straight nose, thin lips. Her silver hair is cut in a severe and sharp angled bob that curls against her jawline, baring a graceful neck. Delicate brows are perched above the same chocolate brown eyes her daughter possesses.

Those eyes are fierce and mistrustful as they take in Eric Byer.

Nicky inhales sharply, eyes filling with tears as she stares at her mother on the screen. She hasn't seen her mother in more than a year, and she can see the weariness that drapes Heidi's mien.

Byer holds out his hand. "Mrs. Parsons, I'm Eric Byer. I'm with –"

Heidi ignores his hand, her voice chilly. "I know who you are, Colonel Byer. My lawyers made certain of it when you…demanded this meeting."

"Requested, ma'am. Of course. Mrs. Parsons – "

"It's Parish, Colonel Byer. 'Parsons' is the name Nicolette adopted in college to give herself anonymity." She speaks with a boarding school New England accent, the vowels rounded and slow. "Close enough to Parish to still be church going. Surely you knew that?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Then why the pretense? Let's stop the bullshit," Heidi orders, the curse word surprising and at odds with her refined demeanor. "I took this meeting out of curiosity since I understand you were adamant about speaking to me. What do you want?"

Nicky can't help smiling. On the screen, it's clear that Byer is out of his element. Whatever he thought he was getting with Heidi Parish, Mummy is completely throwing him for a loop. And for Byer, this can go either way: it either puts him at a disadvantage, or it makes him more dangerous.

Byer gestures to the tall balding man by his side and the dark-haired woman, who have been silent so far. "These are investigators with my organization, Zev Vendel and Dita Mandy. May we sit?"

Heidi gestures to the chairs at the conference table. The three sit, Vendel and Mandy flanking Byer. Heidi walks to the head of the table, remains standing, arms lightly crossed.

Nicky has a perfect view of all of them on screen.

"I'm sure you're aware that several nights ago, your daughter was seen in Ho Chi Minh City."

"Yes, I've been made aware of it by our lawyers, who were apparently contacted by several federal agencies."

"Then you can understand why we've come," Byer continues.

Heidi interrupts. "Actually, I cannot, Colonel Byer. My daughter cut contact with me nearly a year ago, after the alleged incident of her helping a man wanted by the CIA in connection with certain events in New York City."

 _That's right, Mummy. State the facts without lying._

Heidi continues, her tone almost conversational. "To tell you the truth, despite the fact that I and our lawyers have asked repeatedly for a full filing of the charges against my daughter, none have been forthcoming. Perhaps you could shed some light on that before we continue this conversation? Because it's unclear to me which agency wants my daughter for which charges."

"Mrs. Parish, your daughter's work at the CIA means that many of her activities are classified. But she helped a wanted and dangerous criminal escape and we are seeking her in connection with that fugitive," Dita Mandy interjects.

"Yes, we got those basics, but we've had little in the way of facts or evidence or even non-redacted documents that might be useful in mounting a defense for my daughter. In fact, Colonel, it's unclear to me _which_ agency you're affiliated with and what jurisdiction you might have?

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, you must understand it's classified –" Byer starts.

"I don't have to understand a goddamn thing, Colonel, apart from my daughter having been denied her due process."

Byer refuses to engage further, going straight to the matter at hand. "Mrs. Parish, your daughter resurfaced three nights ago in the company of a woman who was known to be helping another wanted fugitive. This woman was responsible for stealing a nerve toxin from the lab in which she worked. She was the sole survivor of a work place massacre which we have reason now to believe that she might have engineered to steal those toxins."

"Jesus Christ, Colonel. What kind of outfit are you running that you have multiple dangerous escapees running around?"

Byer's eyes narrow dangerously. He presses on. "The thing is, ma'am, one of your companies paid for private charter jet from Ho Chi Minh City for two women the morning after your daughter and this woman were photographed together."

Heidi's bark of laughter is anything but humorous. "I don't pay for private charter jet, Colonel. I _own_ a private charter jet company. Am I expected to know all of the customers in my subsidiary companies?"

"Mrs. Parish, I'm sure you can see that the timing…seems suspicion."

"I see no such thing," Heidi says smoothly. "I'm certain I could produce passenger manifests from around the world in which two women took off in a private jet. I'll bet there were plenty of flights on PAA out of Ho Chi Minh City that day or the next day with women on them. But if we're to talk coincidence, let's do. As it happens, my niece, Alexandra Seward maintains a residence in Ho Chi Minh City – and has for nearly two years. She acquired sculptures for my Paris flat and originally intended to ship them to me; but then decided to accompany them to Paris instead. If you looked into her travel habits you'll find that she frequently travels between Asia and Europe aboard my planes. And sometimes at last minute, too."

Byer's eyes are cold, hard. "Mrs. Parish, was your daughter aboard that plane?"

"Did your sources provide you with the passenger manifest?"

 _Good, Mummy. Don't answer his question directly._

Byer's response is equally soft. "Mrs. Parish, have you been in contact with, or have you helped your daughter in any way?"

Heidi keeps her eyes locked on Byer as she presses a button on the complicated Octel conference phone on the table. A voice answers immediately. "Yes, Mrs. Parish?"

"Is Alex Seward here?"

"She is, ma'am. She's waiting for you in the blue conference room."

"Send her to me now. And her assistant."

"Yes ma'am."

Heidi walks toward the three of them, pulls a seat away from the table, and sits on the edge of the conference table. She says nothing, keeping her gaze fixed on Byer.

They're like prize fighters, both silent and thoughtful, each assessing the other, probing for weaknesses. Neither says a word, and on either side of him, Vendel and Mandy begin to fidget uncomfortably as the silence becomes oppressive and hostile.

The glacial quiet in the room is broken a moment later when the door opens and a blonde dressed in clingy black DVF wrap dress and Louboutin heels sweeps into the room, trailed by a ginger-haired woman in loose slacks and a fitted shirt with an inexplicable Peter Pan collar, who is carrying several large artists' portfolios. The blonde is in her late twenties or early thirties; it's hard to discern given the flawless complexion and the dramatic makeup. Her chocolate brown eyes take in the the people in the room and she frowns.

"Darling, I thought you were ready for me," protests Alexandra Seward, nodding toward the three people who have turned to fix their attention on her. She turns back to the ginger-haired woman. "Hélène, _veuillez laisser les dessinés et les portfolios là bas_." She points to the far end of the table. "I've got the sketches and the color boards ready, darling."

Hélène ambles over to the opposite end of the table, unzipping the large leather cases, pulling out boards with sketches and water colors of several rooms, as well as mood boards featuring color samples, fabric swatches and notes.

"Shall I come back?" inquires Alexandra.

"Colonel Byer, Mrs. Alexandra Seward and her assistant, Hélène. Do you wish to interview either?"

"Heidi?" asks Alexandra curiously, her posh accent lifting in query.

Mandy looks at her tablet, then lifts her head, scrutinizing the two women. Finally she sighs, and hands Byer the tablet. He glances at the tablet, then at each woman. He compresses his lips, his expression frustrated.

Nicky knows they're looking at a photo taken at the airport. The women look exactly like the ones in the image taken at Charles de Gaulle airport. Because they're the same women.

Heidi's expression is impassive.

 _Byer knows. He knows._ On the screen, Nicky can see the doubt, the conviction on his face. He knows a shell game has been played. He can't prove it. The chain of custody is too detailed, too documented; he can't refute it.

Byer shakes his head, the movement jerky.

Heidi looks at Alexandra. "This won't take much longer."

Alexandra's eyebrows raise. "All right. Hélène, _vas-y_."

Hélène leaves her sketches and follows Alexandra out the conference room.

Byer's voice is cold, harsh. "Mrs. Parish, has your daughter contacted you?"

"Colonel, are you listening to me? Good. Let me say this one final time: my daughter cut contact with me a year ago. I've been trying since then to find her, to find out if she's alive, where she's been."

"You aren't answering my question." He stands too, leaning forward, his face close to hers. "So let me make something clear to you. Your daughter's association with this… _very dangerous man_ is the reason every law enforcement agency in the world is looking for her. But she is also now mixed up with a potentially even more dangerous person. For her safety, the best thing she can do is turn herself in. You clearly have the means to aid and protect her and I'm certain, given the situation in which your family found itself ten years ago that a woman of your stature wouldn't want the authorities…focusing more…carefully…on your activities, or looking into your enterprises."

A sibilant sound escapes Heidi. It is slightly inhuman and wholly unnerving – at least it is for Byer's compatriots, who are ill at ease and pull back.

"Are you _threatening_ me, you little prick?" Heidi snarls.

Byer's eyes widen.

 _Mummy, oh Mummy._

"Shall I pick up this phone," Heidi's manicured finger points at the conference phone, "And call General Gallagher, the current head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? Or maybe I should call Admiral Hepplewhite, the future head of the Joint Chiefs, who's due to take over in four months? Or should I call my old, dear family friend, the Secretary of Defense and ask any of them why a low level intelligence _worm_ is in _my_ office making idle threats? Who the **_fuck_** do you think I am, you pathetic _maggot_?"

Heidi pushes the last few inches until she's in Byer's face, her brown eyes wide and enraged, all but spitting in his face. "My daughter has been missing and on the run from you, from me, for almost a year. Now you come to me when I've had my first confirmation in nearly a year that she's alive and possibly well, and you're here to accuse me of committing a criminal act?"

Mandy and Vendel physically recoil from Heidi's towering rage, the twist of fury on her face, but Byer holds his ground, his expression neutral though his eyes are narrowed and suspicious.

 ** _"Where is my child?"_** Heidi roars, enunciating each word distinctly. Heidi is one of those women who speaks low in her diaphragm, her voice a baritone; when she shouts, it is not shrill or high pitched; it is deep, powerful, and fucking _frightening_.

Nicky can't stop the squeak that escapes her. Jesus Christ, _Mummy_.

For a split second, on Heidi's face there is despair, fear, harrowing concern; the expression of a mother driven to the brink of dread for her child. It is so human, so real a moment, so convincing and adamant that Byer seems momentarily nonplussed. But then that jaw hardens.

 _He knows. He knows._ Nicky can see.

But for the moment, he's willing to concede defeat in this round. "Mrs. Parish, your daughter is a wanted fugitive. If she contacts you, we expect that you'll alert the proper authorities."

The camera cannot hide the contempt on Heidi's face. "My lawyers will ensure we're in compliance. But the next time you wish to speak to me, you will speak to them. Now get the fuck out of my building."

With that dismissal she presses another button and barks even before her secretary can answer: "Have security come up immediately to escort Colonel Byer and his companions out."


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: First: Thank you. Again, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the reviews, the PMs, the engagement and encouragement! It's very humbling and keeps me charged to write.

I mentioned previously this was a one-shot built around Aaron and Marta until Nicky got into my brain and wouldn't let go. So the thing is, this story is *completely unplotted*. It's making itself up as I go along. Except for one plot point which became clear to me a few chapters ago, I actually have no idea what's happening to Nicky or Marta at any given time until I sit down and start typing. This means that sometimes I make stupid mistakes that have to be rectified after posting. Advance apologies when I have to go back and retcon so it doesn't derail the story or believability!

This brings up the HUGE error I made in the last post. Alexandra's assistant's name is Hélène, not Jeanne; I completely missed it when I posted and didn't notice until I was working on the most recent chapter and it figures significantly in this one. I had to edit it, so apologies for any confusion.

And finally: Regarding some lovely requests I've had for Jason's and Aaron's view points; I seem to only "hear" Nicky's and Marta's voices when I write, and in some ways, finding out second hand through Nicky or Marta what's going on with Jason and Aaron seems to fit the general path of the story. But, if either of them start talking, I'll put it down! I hope you understand.

I didn't expect this story to be so many chapters, so thank you for your patience as I work on building out this fanfic world without violating canon (too much).

* * *

Byer is not done. He steps back, his expression almost menacing. "You'll be hearing from me," he tells Heidi as security arrives. "So will Mrs. Seward."

Nicky observes that her mother does not flinch or pull back. Heidi nods curtly, watching as he and his colleagues are escorted out. Once they are out of her view, Heidi takes a seat at the conference table, and looks directly at the camera. She leans forward in her seat, presses the button on the phone.

"Have Mrs. Seward meet me in my office. Alone."

"Yes, madam," comes the response.

Heidi gets up, walks to the adjoining door.

Nicky unlocks the door, and Heidi steps into her private office. For a moment, mother and daughter simply stare at one another, cataloging the ravages of the year. The powerful, fearsome woman who gave Eric Byer a beat down is gone; in her place, a plaintive mother, whose eyes spring with tears when she sees her child, a weary woman whose pale features are lined with worry and relief.

Nicky moves swiftly into her mother's arms. They hold one another tightly. It is the first loving touch Nicky's felt in over a year. Heidi is shaking, weeping silently.

Heidi's whisper is broken, but fervent. "Nicolette. Nicky."

"Show no fear, Mummy. Soldier on," answers Nicky in return, her throat aching with unshed tears even though her eyes are wet.

It's Mummy's mantra, her edict, the decree she instilled in Nicky early on.

 _"Show no fear," Heidi said when frightened young Nicky was dropped off at boarding school._

 _"Soldier on," Heidi whispered when teenage Nicky's father was tried and convicted._

 _"Show no fear. Stand your ground," Heidi told Nicky on a phone call after the bullying got intense._

 _"Show no fear," Heidi instructed, when the photographers got in their faces, reporters howling questions when the government and Heidi locked horns over her control of Parish Worldwide, as they left their home, as Nicky went back to school, as they tried to resume their daily lives._

 _"Soldier on," Heidi murmured when Nicholas Parish's body was identified in the wake of a murder/suicide in his mistress' home less than a year after his release from prison._

Nicky inhales deeply, taking in a lungful of the Chanel No. 5 that is her mother's signature scent, holding on.

"What can I do, Nicky?" begs Heidi. "What do you need from me?"

There are two sure things Nicky Parsons knows in life; and one of those things is that Heidi Parish would burn the world for her. But the other sure thing she knows is the reason she can't allow Heidi to do such a thing.

She pulls away, finds Heidi still holding on, not yet ready to release her. She places her hands on her mother's shoulders, pushes her back gently, looks into those identical brown eyes. "You've already done it."

"That's not the answer, Nicky. I have …" Heidi protests.

"I know what you have. I know what you can do. But there's nothing more you can do for me right now," Nicky interrupts gently. "Mummy. You can't get more involved. This was a one time bail out. Too many people are already involved now. You're not just risking you. You're risking Alex and your people –"

"People who are loyal to me, to us," Heidi says firmly.

Nicky shakes her head. "No more. You don't know Byer, you don't know what he's capable of."

Heidi waves a dismissive hand. "I know how to manage people like him."

Nicky is more adamant. "No, Mummy, you don't. He's here because he's trying to get a handle on some things at the CIA that impacted what he's really protecting. He is _dangerous._ The people on your dial list? They can't help you because they want what he has. I can't tell you about those things, I can't risk you knowing or perjuring yourself if it comes to it. But don't underestimate him, Mummy. He didn't give up in there; he's just regrouping because he's on your turf and he's going to come for you, and for Alex. It has to stop here."

At that moment, a soft knock on the door, followed by a clear voice: "It's Alex, darling."

They walk to the door together, Nicky stepping behind the door as Heidi opens it. They don't know who might be walking by; but it's only Alexandra on the other side. She sweeps in dramatically, lanky, lovely.

"Heidi, you've _got_ to see the sculptures in the library. They're amazing, darling, _amazing_." Her voice carries, the Sloaney accent pronounced. When Heidi closes and locks the door behind her, Alexandra turns toward her cousin, and her voice drops, the weariness and worry that marks Heidi's tone as evident in Alex's. "Hallo, cuz. It's so damn good to see you again."

For Nicky, it's another warm hug, another benediction of the familial ties she's had to sever since going on the run. Alex is older by five years but the cousins have always been close. Their mothers were sisters; Alex's mother died when she was young, and Heidi's held that honorary role ever since. Nicky and Alex are of similar height and coloring, though Alex is leggier, her features leaner, her hair much blonder, but they have the same brown eyes. Dressed in couture or high end _prêt à porter_ , big glasses and floppy hats, and moving with Alexandra's swagger, it's easy to pull off the pretense if someone isn't looking too closely.

Shortly after she went on the run, Nicky, Heidi and Alex all agreed on a protocol for masking Nicky's movements.

When Nicky needs to travel, Heidi arranges for chartered planes to take Alexandra to wherever Nicky is; Nicky adopts Alex's identity and uses a fraud of Alex's passport. Alex remains _in situ_ until Nicky's return. Wherever she goes, Nicky is Alexandra Seward – to staff, to strangers, to _everyone_ she meets. Anyone queried can legitimately and truthfully say that it was Mrs. Seward they encountered.

This was the plan.

But in the year since they hatched this plan, Nicky has never invoked it, until three nights ago.

In the months after Nicky went underground, Heidi was followed, harassed, scrutinized. From afar, Nicky watched her mother undergo the hellish pressure from law enforcement agencies interrogating her, serving her with subpoenas and the like; and the press asking for comment about her daughter. She doesn't want to think about how many chits Heidi doled out to quell the furor.

She also realized that their plan required Alex to be at Nicky's beck and call; required Heidi to use her vast wealth and resources to cover for Nicky. And she loves them too much to ask them to sacrifice their freedom for her. She knows they'd do it willingly, are in fact _hoping_ to be of service to her. But it's not feasible.

Eventually she'll be caught. She knows it's a certainty. If not Byer or Vosen or Cramer, _someone_ is going to catch her. And when that happens, she wants Mummy and Alex absolutely clear, unimpeachable. So she cut all ties with the only family she has.

"How's the house?" Alex asks.

"Lovely thanks. When do your friends return?"

"Not for two weeks. I told them 'I'd' leave with my friend before they returned."

This is why the butler calls Nicky "Mrs. Seward." He doesn't know her as anything else other than his employers' friend who is staying at the _hotel particulier_ for a few days with a companion.

"Thanks for the last minute scramble, cuz."

Alex nods, yawns tiredly. "Next time, give us more than six hours to pull off something like that. At least I was still Ho Chi Minh City."

This was both providence and coincidence. Alex _does_ live in Ho Chi Minh City most of the year; it's the main reason Nicky moved there. There was comfort in the proximity to her cousin even if they could not meet.

"Mummy, Byer is right. It _does_ look suspicious when a plane leaves with Alex the day after they photograph me."

"The passenger manifest says Alexandra Seward and Hélène Montrose."

"If they dig hard, they'll find _two_ manifests with those names."

And that's how the shell game is played.

Two flights departed Ho Chi Minh City and landed in Paris within minutes of each other. On one flight are Alexandra Seward and Hélène Montrose. On the other flight, the company's General Declaration has two dead-heading attendants on an "empty leg" back to Paris to pick up a charter client at Charles de Gaulle. Empty legs are the unsold segments of a one-way private charter; the plane lands, and returns empty to its home base.

If they had landed in Paris and all had gone according to plan, Nicky and Marta would have cleared Customs and Immigration aboard, then gone on their way. Because things did _not_ go according to plan, they switched: Alexandra Seward, aboard the jet carrying the two dead-heading attendants, disembarked with Hélène Montrose and went to the terminal to meet French and American authorities. Nicky and Marta adopted the identities of the PAA "attendants" and cleared at the FBO with Sophie.

"There's only _one_ manifest with those names. An earlier duplicate entry manifest was corrected before take off in Ho Chi Minh City," Heidi declares.

"What about the General Declaration with the fake names?" Nicky reminds them.

Heidi shrugs. "It's not our fault if it got lost."

"Besides which, two more charter flights left that day and three more left the following day," Alex notes.

"There are too many people in on this. Too many potential loose threads." Nicky feels so tired. She takes a seat in front of the desk. "You two, Hélène, Sophie. The crews."

"The crews know nothing. And I can cut loose threads," Heidi says simply. Nicky stares at her mom. She's been entirely too long in a world where death and killing are the norm. It takes her a moment to understand Heidi isn't threatening murder.

"They're going to ask Alex if she's seen me in Ho Chi Minh City, if she helped me. You don't think someone's gonna say, 'Her cousin lived there and they never met up?'"

"And I'm going to pass any polygraph test they give me because we never did, you stupid twit," Alex says fiercely.

Nicky sighs, dropping her head in her hands. It's so hard to argue with two women who are exactly like her.

Heidi, worriedly: "Nicky, is what he said true? About the woman you're with?"

Nicky shakes her head. "She's a victim in this." Nicky gives her mother and cousin an abbreviated version of Marta and Sterisyn-Morlanta.

"What now?" Alex asks.

From Nicky's lowered head comes a sniff. "Now you hug me and say good-bye."

"Bugger that!" Alex objects.

"Nicky!" Heidi cries, grabbing her daughter's shoulders. Desperately, she asks: "Nicky, what do you need to come in?"

Nicky lifts her head, looks up at her mother, her face drawn. "Mummy. No one you know, not even the President, can help me as long as Byer's got what…he has."

Tears are streaming down Heidi's face as she holds her daughter's face in her hands. Nicky is resolute. Her hands are curled gently around her mother's wrists. "I won't be in Paris long. There's a possibility…a long shot that we – I – might be able to put Byer in a vise. If I can do it…I'll come back to you."

"Bollocks, Nicky," Alex protests, her voice cracking. "This is it? After a year, we get thirty minutes?"

Nicky doesn't answer; she's slid her arms around her mother's waist and is pressing her cheek against the soft fabric of Heidi's dress. Heidi is bent slightly over her daughter, one hand on the back of Nicky's neck, the other stroking Nicky's hair. She is visibly distraught; but her hands are gentle, soothing as she comforts her child.

"If I can't…if I can't bring down Byer," Nicky whispers, "I promise I'll try to let you know where I go." Nicky stands up, hugs her mother. "I love you, Mummy."

When they separate, Heidi is more herself; and Nicky nods when her mother instructs: "Show no fear. Soldier on."

Nicky steps away from Heidi, who wraps her arms around her midriff as if injured. Heidi walks to the still darkened windows, looking away from Nicky. Heidi's head is bent, her posture fragile.

At the door, Nicky embraces a distressed Alex. "Take care of Mummy for me, cuz."

"Stupid, stupid twit," Alex grouses. In Nicky's ear she whispers: "Don't emulate your mom and me when it comes to bad choices over men." The cousins share a meaningful look; and Alex tells Nicky very softly, very gently so Heidi cannot hear: "Whatever penance you're doing Nicky, consider if you really deserve it."

Nicky looks at her bleakly. "I do."

With that, Nicky pulls on her scarf and Ray Bans and opens the door. She does not look behind her, just as she knows that Heidi and Alex do not watch her go. Behind her, the door closes quietly.


	17. Chapter 17

_Then_

"…Heidi Parish is like that…" Nicky says, nodding toward the ocean. "Beautiful, expansive, enveloping. But don't ever fuck with her because she'll drown your ass."

She feels David's chuckle in the way his chest lifts and pushes against her back rather than hears it over the booming tide.

"But also immutable. If I have one guarantee in life, it's that Mummy will always be there for me."

"I'm here," David says.

Nicky doesn't remind him that by the very nature of what he is and what he does, his fate is rather capricious. Such statements are at best, a platitude.

But David does the unexpected. He doubles down. "I'm here, Nicky. As long as I have breath, I'm yours."

Staring out at an ocean once run red with the blood of fierce young men like him, Nicky allows herself to believe this.

* * *

 _Now_

Nicky approaches the apartment in Montparnasse, a punishing knot in her chest, restricting her breath.

When she and Marta parted ways this morning to make this rendezvous with Cross separately, the pending return to this flat filled Nicky with a dread unmatched by anything she's had to endure in the last week since her life was upended.

It feels at once as if no time has passed since she slipped down this narrow, quiet street to the five story fawn-colored building with the whimsical arched wooden double doors. It feels like forever since she slipped her key into the lock, stepping inside.

The sounds, the smells – the familiarity of it all – assaults her, soothes her; cradles and punishes her simultaneously.

Nicky takes a few deep breaths. She just needs to get those computers, deliver them to Cross. Make their plans for breaking into NRAG's system with his contact in Berlin. Then she can leave this place and its haunting imprint on her soul.

She winds her way up the stairs, round and round; the floors are double height so four flights later, she arrives on her floor, to find three extremely agitated people on the small landing. She stops on the top step, stunned.

 _What the fuck is Bourne doing here?_

Bourne and Cross are keeping their distance, standing on opposite sides of the landing. Too much testosterone, too much high functioning alpha maleness in the close proximity of the hall; Marta stands between them, an exasperated and harassed expression on her face. She looks like a school teacher who's trying to keep two bad boys from fighting.

Nicky's flash of humor is superseded by sheer, blinding panic. She hadn't expected Bourne to come to Paris. After he'd left without a word that night in Ho Chi Minh City, she had _fully_ anticipated him departing Vietnam and going his own way. Hopefully never to be seen by her again.

 ** _Why is he here?_**

They're staring at her. She's just standing there, not moving. Trying to figure out how to get Bourne to _leave_. To get all of them to leave.

"Nicky, we can't stand out here," Marta says softly. Her hazel eyes are wide, concerned.

They must not have been here long; there's now way Cross nor Bourne wouldn't have picked the lock to get in instead of exposing themselves by staying on the landing and waiting for her.

"Parsons, I need that computer," Cross says urgently. Clearly Marta has told him.

Bourne's gaze is steady, focused, curious.

 _Oh shit. Oh shit._

Nicky feels unsteady as she goes to the door, her agile mind failing to find a plausible reason to deny them entry.

Her heart is pounding so hard she can hear it drumming in her ears as she slides the key into the lock. She hasn't been…home _…_

 _No,_ she corrects _. Here_. Not home. _Here_. She hasn't been _here_ in three years. She opens the door and steps into the small foyer. The fresh lemon scent indicates a recent cleaning. The building's manager clearly got the message that Nicky was coming. She makes a mental note to send money to Brigitte.

Stepping through the French double doors into the main room, Nicky freezes. Walking into this flat is like ripping off a healing scab, letting the wound gush blood.

 _Oh God no._

Even though Brigitte cleaned the entire apartment and removed the dust covers and sheets from the furniture, she left certain things exactly as they were when Nicky last lived here.

The flat is a time capsule, frozen in the moment she and David Webb were last here together.

To mask her frazzled nerves, Nicky strides across the wood chevron-patterned floor and opens both sets of windows against the far wall. They are nearly floor-to-ceiling and open out to the wrought iron balcony which runs the length of the apartment. A fresh breeze ruffles the sheers and filters out the slightly damp and stale air.

She turns to find the others stepping into the room, looking about curiously.

It's a typical second-floor Haussmann apartment with high ceilings and natural light that makes the open, white room seem bigger than it is. Original boiseries and moldings adorn the ceilings and walls. A hall leads to the bathroom and bedroom on one side of the apartment while on the other, another set of French doors lead to a small, light strewn kitchen.

The room is appointed with furniture from the Saint-Ouen flea markets, mostly found during their leisurely strolls together in the _marché Dauphine_ and the _marché des Rues._ One wall houses a large oak _biblioteque_ display cabinet, filled with books. A Louis XVI-style fauteuil is placed between the bookcase and an antique campaign table, underneath which are stacked several laptops. The wall opposite hosts a carved wooden frame sofa, painted dove grey and upholstered in grey velvet. Over it is a small white shadowbox, at the center of which is a pressed daisy.

On top of the round, hammered steel coffee table, there's a picture in frame with an extreme close up of Nicky in profile, a half smile on her face, a hand partially up as if trying to stop the photographer from taking her image.

Jason Bourne is looking around, cataloguing everything about the flat, at once where he should be, and _not belonging_ _at all_ to this place. His eyes zero in on a crimson jersey tossed over the back of a second fauteuil facing the sofa. It's emblazoned with the word "Webb" on the back.

David's rugby jersey from Harvard.

Bourne locks eyes with her.

The look on his face. It's certainty.

Nicky's nerves riot and her stomach revolts.

It happens so quickly she barely manages to race down the hall to the bathroom in time to heave her guts out in the commode. The _jambon_ sandwich she had earlier comes up along with the bile that's been roiling inside her ever since Jason Bourne re-entered her life.

"Nicky?" Marta blocks the door way, her voice soft and concerned.

"Go away," Nicky snarls. Marta doesn't leave though. She steps in, closes the door and crouches to hold Nicky's hair as Nicky finds herself convulsed with another humiliating surge of retching. Marta's hands are gentle, resting on Nicky's neck. When Nicky is finished, Marta gets up and runs water in the faucet; Nicky next feels a cold compress against her forehead. Marta's touch offers comfort; for Nicky, it is too much, recalling Heidi's similar succor, just yesterday.

She whimpers, "Leave, God just leave."

Marta quietly obeys, removing the compress and standing up.

"I'll be nearby if you need anything," Marta says quietly.

Nicky closes her eyes, can't take Marta's kindness; she is so raw, so exposed. Marta leaves and pulls the door behind her, for which Nicky is grateful.

She stays in the bathroom another twenty minutes; not because she's still sick, but because she can't find the strength to face Bourne. There have been enough clues along the way that he could not possibly be so _dim_ , that he had pieced enough to know they weren't just a handler and an asset. But to be confronted with evidence that they were _so much_ more?

Nicky opens the cabinet, pulls out an unopened package of toothbrushes, and brushes her teeth. When she leaves the bathroom, she moves across the hallway to the bedroom. Opening the door to the room, she blinks back the onslaught of tears.

The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, is simply furnished: two bergères against the windows that lead to the balcony, a Louis XV-style wrought iron bedframe which houses a queen size mattress, two mismatched nightstands and lamps. The scarcity of furniture and the high ceilings makes the room feel airy and open.

Reaching behind, she unzips her dress and allows it to fall to the floor. She turns to the custom built, walk-in closet that is so unusual for a Haussmann apartment; the previous owner had preferred the convenience of a closet to the charm of authenticity. She pulls on a pair of washed out skinny jeans and pale blue linen button down shirt. Putting these clothes on is like donning the armor and the identity of Nicky Parsons, Sorbonne grad student and intelligence officer, again.

Her eyes stray to the other side of the closet; to the neatly folded Henley shirts on their shelves, the collared shirts, jeans and khakis slung over hangers, blazers, jackets and ties; the other accouterments of a man's casual and formal wardrobe. Nicky ducks her head, staring at the floor, finds herself looking at the men's trainers and loafers mixed in with her pumps and flats and boots. Unable to stop herself, Nicky reaches for the top drawer of the dresser against the wall. Pulling out a faded blue T-shirt emblazoned with 1st SFOD-D's logo on the front, she lifts it to her face. There's no scent of him any longer to comfort her; but that's not why she buries her face in his shirt. It's that she needs something to staunch the tears.

* * *

When Nicky walks out to the empty living room thirty minutes later, her first thought is, _Where are Cross and Shearing_? A movement at the window draws her attention to the balcony. They are outside, Marta sitting in Cross' lap, her head resting on his shoulder. Nicky's next thought is, _Where is Bourne?_

She finds him in the kitchen. It is relatively modernized though in keeping with the apartment's 19th century aura. Nothing is out on the counters except for a Moka coffee pot on the small gas range.

On the fridge, several white notes are tacked with magnets, on which are scrawled brief lines of writing.

Bourne is standing front of the fridge, staring intently at them. She knows without approaching what he sees on those slips of paper. His own handwriting.

 _The Sun Also Rises. I'll be at the bar. Whenever._

 _La Jaconde. Come smile at me, too. (But don't forget: they_ _close_ _at 18:00.)_

 _Marché aux Puces. I need a desk. Find me. Or I'll find you._

 _Impasse des Arbalétriers. Be my Isabeau?_ Underneath this message is written in a woman's neat script: _Stay in bed with me, Louis. Let's avert the Hundred Years War._

David's oblique playfulness in composing those notes had been part of the lure; it had delighted her to figure out the clues he left to determine where he'd be. _La Jaconde_ : the Mona Lisa, at the Louvre. The day he'd won his kiss. _Impasse des Arbalétriers_ , the narrow passageway where the French king's brother had left his mistress' bed one morning and been assassinated, leading to a century of war.

She'd written her response below his scrawl the morning after they'd made love for the first time.

He turns to her, his impassive expression at odds with the turbulence in those blue eyes.

"Why won't you tell me?" Bourne asks quietly.

"It's all there in front of you. It always has been," she answers wearily, her voice catching.

He touches the notes, pushes the top ones aside to look at the slips underneath. He taps one that is a simple pen drawing of a daisy with a _DW + NP_ inscribed next to it.

"I don't remember any of this."

"I know, Jason," she says, amazed at how calm, how cool she sounds when everything inside is writhing in agony.

* * *

 _Then_

"Why?" Nicky whispers.

She and David are lying in bed, facing one another, legs entwined, arms draped over each other's hips. The dawn light is only beginning to filter into their room, enough so she can make out his features, the slow smile that tugs at that beautiful mouth, and warms those eyes. Even after a year together, she still marvels at the tenderness in his eyes.

"Because you made me feel something," he replies just as softly. "Because I didn't feel alone around you."

"You're supposed to be alone," she reminds him. "It's what Treadstone agents are designed to be."

He reaches out, pushing her hair away from her face, stroking the smooth brow, his thumb brushing across her lower lip.

"I don't want to be alone anymore." His hand cups her cheek. "I want to be with you."

Her generous mouth curves into a smile which fades slowly, replaced with worry and sadness. Such dangerous words. He and his ilk are highly trained, highly specialized. They are meant to be solitary, to function like perfect killing automatons who wake, sleep and wait for orders.

He's leaving for another assignment in a few hours. The target is a deposed Nigerian dictator. A routine job.

"David, what are we going to do?" she whispers, not yet ready to name her fear.

"When I get back, we should run away," he suggests.

Her eyes widen. "You think they're going to let a $30 million dollar weapon walk out the door and never come back?"

He doesn't answer, just curves his hand around her neck, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw. They stare into each other's eyes, the gesture deeply intimate.

"You're safe with me," Nicky asserts, never looking away.

"You're safe with me," he repeats, holding that gaze.

That thought binds him to her, places her well-being above every thing else. The hand around her neck tightens gently, and Nicky moves towards him, her mouth pressing against his. The kiss is tender, loving. She rubs her nose against his playfully, looking into his eyes.

"If we had kids, they'd have your eyes," he observes.

The sharp pang that goes through her is crippling. Nicky doesn't want to engage in this daydream; it's too hard, too painful. It's not the first time he's alluded to a future. They're fantasies, though, constructs that can never happen. His world is narrowed and confined solely to what Treadstone dictates; what Jason Bourne – or David Webb – wants is irrelevant. But she doesn't let that fact interfere with this early morning fancy.

"What a pity," she comments as lightly as she can. "Your blue eyes are so much prettier."

"Brown eyes are dominant." He sighs. "What do you think, Nicky? A posse of little brown-eyed kids running around? White picket fence?"

"No white picket fences," she protests.

"Okay, then let's get a boat and sail away into the sunset with the kids."

The alarm on his watch beeps. They both freeze, then David gives her a quick kiss before he gets out of bed.

* * *

Several hours later, he'd left.

That night, he'd arrived on Wombosi's yacht and holed up for five days before completely failing his mission. He was shot, nearly died, lost his memory, and in Conklin's immortal rant, became a malfunctioning, total goddamn catastrophe.

Because he was never debriefed, no one really knows what happened on that boat, what caused him to go haywire. She wonders if he knows himself what caused him not to pull the trigger. She recalls when he was in the Treadstone safehouse, confronting Conklin; it seemed he'd remembered something about the Wombosi assignment. But what?

Nicky goes to the cabinet nearest the sink, opening it and reaching in to pull out an etched whisky glass and a nearly full bottle of bourbon. Pouring herself a healthy splash, she takes a quick gulp, concentrating on the fiery burn in her throat.

"What do I need to know about you, Nicky?" That question again.

 _You need to know that being near you is killing me in slow degrees._

That's not what she says, of course. "What do you want to know, Jason?"

"Why do you call me Jason?"

Nicky's short laugh is completely devoid of humor. "It's funny. You're not even the Bourne I knew. _That_ Jason Bourne – he was…different than you."

"My things are here."

"No," Nicky says harshly. "David's things are here."

"I _am_ David Webb."

She shakes her head again, almost angrily. "No. Your name isn't your identity. It's what you do. What you do now is Jason Bourne. What you are…now…is also Jason Bourne."

"What was our timeline?"

"We became lovers almost a year after we met and were together right up until the Wombosi assignment."

"Do you know what happened to me?" He doesn't address the revelation of their relationship. She pretends it doesn't sting.

"I don't, not all of it. You left, went on the mission, came back like…" She waves a hand up and down, gesturing at him. "There was a break in your conditioning. I just don't know what the trigger was that led to everything that happened with the Wombosi assignment…and after.

"After all my training, why would that happen?"

She can see the reflection of herself in the mirrored backsplash behind him, the stricken expression on her face.

"When we were together…I was with David Webb, not Jason Bourne. I've always wondered if that caused dissonance, if David Webb's existence where he shouldn't have been weakened the initial conditioning." She pours another dram of whisky. "And…there was that unsanctioned protocol to protect me."

"What else, Nicky?"

Nicky tosses back the remainder of her whisky. _I can't. I can't._ She points at the fridge, at the notes. "That. There."

She cannot, absolutely cannot, tell him everything; that he was the love of her life; that they'd talked about running away together; that they'd talked about a family, a life, a world beyond the reaches of Treadstone. It's too crippling to say these things to a man who looks, sounds, smells, moves exactly like that love, but who in every way that matters, isn't him, and likely never will be again.

Let him discover it on his own, let him couple his grief over losing Marie Kreutz with her sorrow at losing David Webb.

She needs to bury her love and her past.

"I need you to leave," Nicky says, her voice trembling, her throat aching from the crying and retching. "Please Jason, you have to go. I can't…I just…"

She breaks off, tears welling in her eyes. She tries to stuff it all down, shove it away where he can't see how much it breaks her that he's here and not…himself.

Jason takes a step toward her, the expression on his face at once confused and compassionate; as if he understands her grief, wants to assuage it and is confounded by that urge. She's already explained to him why he is compelled toward her; and she knows he understands that his response might be trained, not instinctive. But there are things he _doesn't_ know, that not all responses are studied, that some reactions are instead, ingrained. He takes another step, reaching for her.

Nicky's eyes widen in alarm and she retreats, presses back against cabinets. He stops, his arm still outstretched, holding her gaze, those blue eyes intense with feeling.

 _If he touches her, she is lost._

"Please," she whispers. "Please go."

Bourne studies her face, his expression edged with frustration and concern. His arm drops. Nicky turns her head, clenching the glass in her hand.

Cross clears his throat. He's standing at the French doors, Marta behind him. Their presence dispels the charged moment, though the tension remains. Cross looks warily at Bourne before he enters the kitchen, and eyes Nicky's glass.

"Tell me that's Kentucky bourbon."

Nicky pours a splash and extends the tumbler to him. "It's Kentucky bourbon."

Cross makes a reverent sound and steps forward to take it, downing the liquid quickly. He hands back the empty glass with an appreciative whistle. His gaze sweeps from a pale Nicky to a stone-faced Bourne. "All right?"

Nicky doesn't look at Bourne. She pours herself another two fingers of whisky and knocks it back, then caps the Bourbon and puts it away. "Let's get to work," she says, leading the way out of the kitchen, looking straight ahead.

She is not surprised when Bourne follows behind them, then walks out the front door without another word.

What does surprise her is how she remains standing, as if she were unaffected.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: THANK YOU to my amazing beta reader, AViewerLikeMe, who has been tireless in reviewing, commenting and pointing out errors in the first drafts. I am so grateful for your endless patience, for cheering me on, and for letting me rant about weird things like bad dialogue in AOTC and my equally lunatic response to it by re-writing the entire screenplay. Thank you thank you thank you!

* * *

"How're you holding up, Parsons?"

It's the third time Cross has asked her this question in the last hour. Nicky would be irritated except for the fact that he's probably right to ask.

Her head hurts, and the words on the screen are blurry. The fatigue, the stress, the emotional turbulence of the past 48 hours, between seeing her family and having her lost love in their apartment again, are wreaking havoc with her senses. Also:

 _Shouldn't have swigged that much Bourbon_.

"I'm fine," she lies.

"You sure?"

She glares at him. He holds up his hands defensively.

"Why are you doing this?" he queries, gesturing at the two open laptops on the campaign desk.

After Bourne left, she'd gone to the built-in safe hidden in the custom closet where a stack of decommissioned laptops – all reported to have been destroyed years ago – are nestled.

Nicky doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Marta told me she's dying."

Cross's face spasms briefly with pain, sorrow. He nods. "Yeah."

 _But why are you going out on a limb for a stranger?_

He doesn't say it aloud but she can read between the lines. He's right about that. It's not all altruistic.

"Why'd you join?" she asks .

"When they got me, I was broken. Blown up, TBI, fucked up. Shoulda' died out there, really. They made it really…attractive, the idea of belonging to something bigger, more meaningful than just me."

Nicky's jaw hurts from grinding her teeth together. "That sounds familiar." They'd gotten her after her father's death, given her a chance to redeem what he'd done. And Bourne. They'd gotten him in the wake of his father's death.

"Marta told me about her mom." Nicky leans back against the fauteuil, looks up at the ceiling. "About her mom being sick and dying from the time she was three until she was thirteen. I think it screws you up when the people you need aren't there when you're a kid. My dad sucked as a human being and a father, but I had my mother. She is the strongest person I know."

"You're pretty solid," Cross concurs.

"I'm a good operative," Nicky agrees. "I've had the training to do this and the temperament to see things through. I know this life. I chose it. I can survive it." She pauses. "But having a mom like mine makes a world of difference in how you approach life. Not only can I survive, I could actually thrive. Marta's different though. Frankly I think she would rather you chuck this whole thing and settle somewhere quiet and be together for what's left."

He drops his head momentarily, meditatively. "I know. She told me."

"So why _are_ you doing this?"

He glances at the kitchen, where Marta disappeared to a couple of hours ago. From the noises and the scents, she's been busily cooking.

"I've been in love with her for a long time now. I'm not even sure how or why I fell in love other than that I thought –in the beginning – that she was beautiful and smart. Whip smart. A little lost at life and not so great on the social skills sometimes – but…there was always this innocence. I think that's what did it eventually. She was completely different than me…us. Every time I went out, I'd be doing something shitty, something you don't write home about. You just do it and move on. Then I'd come into the lab and see her. And for all her science goofiness, there's this innate sweetness about her. It was the way she'd look me in the eye, explain what was going on, what they were trying to measure. The way she'd blush and put up with my teasing. I needed –need – that gentleness, that softness; this kindness that isn't even remotely connected to the world of shit that you and I live in. We learn to bury everything, compartmentalize it. She actually _feels_. It made all the crap I was doling out, dealing with, living with, less…crappy. She's brave, strong in her own way. Different than you – "

"—But I was trained to do this," Nicky interjects. "In a lab, Marta would probably run circles around me."

"She's still figuring things out, how to be on the run, how to think like someone who's hunted rather than someone who's trusted the system her whole life." He shrugs. "It's why I've kept her at an arms length for most of this time. Whatever she feels for me, I needed her to come to it on her own terms. Being dependent on someone for survival kinda fucks up normal courtship rules."

Nicky's brows rise fractionally. "Noble of you."

He gives her the stink eye. "You're right about how fucked up a childhood can get when you don't have what you need from people. Marta and I share that in common. I don't have family, not the kind you're describing. Marta _is_ my family. We're loose ends that Byer needs to cut. We can go somewhere, sure. But he'll catch up to us eventually."

Nicky takes a deep breath. It's the same reason she cut ties with Mummy and Alex. Because someone's going to catch her eventually, too.

"You ever love someone so much you'd risk everything just to make sure they're safe?" he asks quietly.

 _Fuck. Why yes, I have._ Nicky thinks.

Cross is looking at her keenly. She knows he's thinking of Bourne. She doesn't want to go there.

"Be careful you're not risking her too," Nicky warns.

"We can call this, Parsons," Cross offers, leaning back against the fauteuil's padded back. "You don't have to do this."

Nicky eyes him. "I'm not doing this for you or her, Cross. I'm doing this because I'm not okay being kept from my mother."

Cross' half-smile is a little skeptical, like he knows there's more to her than she portrays.

They turn back to the laptops. For hours, she's walked Cross through the protocols first at Treadstone and later at Blackbriar – everything from physical to electronic access; badges, logons, challenges. Marta gave her a primer on Sterisyn-Morlanta. Nicky and Cross codified the similarities and differences. Then Nicky dug into who had access to what and when.

Cross explains how his hacker got into NRAG's system: first, they launched a directed phishing campaign that resulted in their being able to install malware and steal legitimate credentials. Using valid logins and passwords, they gained access to NRAG, then found a vulnerability they were able to exploit which permitted them to upload a PHP file. PHP files run scripts in web applications; theirs was a web shell, a backdoor that allowed them to upload a malicious script with a disguised file name to make it look like a valid PHP component.

"Now we're in their system, hiding in plain view and camouflaged," Cross explains. "For the last three months we've been doing recon. We have some capability to run operating systems commands but before we can do anything else, we need serious intelligence about how NRAG's internal network works."

"You'll need to find the servers that hold the black ops files," Nicky agrees. "The Active Directory holds the data for everything in the domain – users, computers, services. If you can query the AD using standard LDAP protocol, we can identify the files based on the server on which they're kept."

Cross nods. "We have domain admin privileges right now."

"And the admin hasn't changed passwords yet?"

Cross shakes his head. "That's why we have to move fast. We've got several domain admin tokens, but they're good only until someone updates his or her password. We've tried to access Remote Desktop but that requires an actual password."

"Can you set up a new Domain Admin account and add it to the DA group?"

"We can."

"Okay, if we can do that, it'll let us monitor the network, query it on the down low and figure out the structure."

He grimaces. "It's going to raise red flags all over the place once we start moving data to a central location to exfiltrate."

They've talked about the network failsafes: if NRAG is anything like Treadstone and Blackbriar, there'll be software that will monitor the network and note everything from unusual behavior to large amounts of data moving in the network. Correlative engines will raise an alarm if it determines that the network might be breached based on network activity.

"We're going to need a diversion to keep their eyes off their network," Nicky concurs. "Something that's going to cause them to miss critical warnings."

"What's big enough to do that?" Cross mutters.

For the next forty-five minutes, they strategize. Finally:

"We'll head to Berlin tomorrow," Cross says. "I've got a meet set up with the guy. This—" he nods at the laptops, "is helpful."

Nicky nods. "Okay. I need a few days here to…clean up some stuff. We'll need a secure place in Berlin if we're going to do this."

"We've got it," he assures her.

"Nicky, Aaron; dinner?" comes Marta's soft voice. She's bringing a Le Creuset casserole dish to the small oval white painted dining table. The most delicious smells waft from the Dutch oven, and Nicky's stomach rumbles.

"Beef stew," Marta offers.

It smells like more than beef stew, Nicky thinks as she follows Cross to the table. It smells like…home. It smells like Heidi's _bœuf Bourgignon_.

 _Yeah_ , Nicky thinks. I'll do this with Cross.

 _I want my Mummy._

* * *

By the time they slip out, it's past 1 am. She doesn't ask where they're going, where they're going to stay. Cross gave her the rendezvous point in Berlin, four days from now. Before they left, Marta reached out, squeezed Nicky's shoulder, whispered, "Be safe, Nicky."

At first, Nicky debates leaving the flat and finding accommodations elsewhere; but it's late and she's just too drained to figure it out. Slipping on David's Delta Force t-shirt, the one she'd earlier soaked with tears, Nicky climbs in between the cool sheets, determinedly blocking everything from her mind about this bed and the last time she lay here. She needs to sleep off the exhaustion and the booze and then she's leaving tomorrow.

How hard can it be, sleeping here for one night?

 _Really fucking hard_.

After tossing and turning on the bed for several hours, she finally gives up. Padding out of the room, she makes her way to the kitchen. She's crossing through the living room when a figure sits up on the sofa.

"Nicky."

Nicky freezes. Her lungs expand, a scream bursting to emerge; she contains it, clamps down furiously on her shock.

 _Fuck fuck FUCK!_ She must be more exhausted than she thought to have been completely unaware of him here. _How long has he been here, in her living room?_

She doesn't even bother to ask him how he got in. She's not surprised he's in the apartment; she's surprised he's back.

"What are you doing here?" She can't stop the harshness from infusing her tone.

 _God, what part of 'Please leave' do you not understand, Jason?_

In the darkness, she can see him watching her.

He doesn't answer her question. "I was waiting to see you…I didn't want to wake you."

"I couldn't sleep," she remarks.

"I couldn't either," he says, his voice low and measured.

Of course not. David could never sleep on that sofa. The antique padding wasn't made for his solid, lean body. He's too big, too much.

"Do you want some water?" she asks.

"Yes, please."

She forces her leaden limbs to move to the kitchen, where in the privacy of that space, she allows herself to let go of a shuddering breath, wrap her arms tightly around her waist, trying to get her wrecked senses under control.

By the time she drinks a glass of water and refills it with more for him, she's less hysterical. There's something surreal about bringing him a glass, the way she used to; he was so parched at night, the meds and his metabolism working at full speed all the time. She hands him the glass, finds herself lingering, waiting.

He drinks and goes to put the glass on the table next to the sofa, but she takes it from him, their fingers brushing. Nicky hesitates, uncertain. She wants to tell him to leave. She wants to physically remove him from this room, actually, shove him out the door or the window, whichever is most expedient. In the end, she just doesn't have that much willpower. Chalk it up to the night, to this place, to this man, who draws her to him, the antipodean magnet that attracts her no matter what she does.

"Why are you here?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't _know_ the answer.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" he asks.

She shrugs. "I don't sleep very well. I haven't in a long time," she confesses.

Being on the run is a constant, ever gnawing fear. There's no safe place.

"You could've chosen not to help me," he observes.

Nicky shakes her head. "That wasn't an option."

"What you've given up…," he starts.

She interrupts. "Was nothing compared to what I'd already lost."

He thinks he knows the cost. He doesn't. He can't. But even so, it's clear he feels for her. "I've never said so, but thank you for helping me."

It's not a balm. If anything it's more grit over her senses.

For a moment they are quiet together. Nicky pauses, ready to leave; but then finds herself taking the seat next to him. He scoots over, making more room; or rather, avoiding her. Nicky sets the empty glass on the coffee table, looking at the framed photo of her in close up.

"Did…I take that picture?" His voice is whisper soft in the darkness.

"David did, yes." _I can't think of you as him. "_ At Closérie des Lilas. The next day."

"The next day?"

"The first night we met there, they closed half an hour later. So we went for a walk." _A really long one_. She closes her eyes, willing herself to be in that time again, if just for a fleeting moment.

They had been loath to part from one another though neither had said so aloud; instead they found themselves wandering all over Montparnasse together in the Parisian night, passing bistros, bars, quiet and dark storefronts. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they were silent, the city smells of cigarette and wine and beer eventually giving way to the scent of fresh baked bread when the bakers had started working on their baguettes and yeast breads and leavened breads and patisseries in the early early hours. They'd finally found themselves at Sacre Coeur. "He read me the last chapter of _The Sun Also Rises_ on the steps at Sacre Coeur."

She can sense him listening as one would hear the recollections of someone else's adventure, someone else's love story. She knows he can't recall how she'd stretched herself out, laid her head on his lap, eyes closed, half asleep while he'd stroked her hair and read the heartbreaking finale of the novel as the sun pinkened the sky over the sleepy city.

How that languid voice had infused all the regrets and yearning into Lady Bretty Ashley's and Jake Barnes' final conversation:

 _"Oh Jake," Brett said, "We could have had such a damned good time together."_

 _Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly, pressing Brett against me._

 _"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"_

"We never went to sleep," she remembers with a soft smile. "We went back to the restaurant when they opened and had lunch. We were so…tired. That's why I didn't want David to take my picture."

"You think of me as two different people."

She tries to be nonchalant when she shrugs. "Even before, you were two different people." She looks around the room. "David lived here. Bourne was in the compound. We were never confused about who we were where."

"And they never found out?"

She snorts. "They didn't suspect and we took what we could, but we knew they would find out eventually."

"Why do you still have this place?"

 _Because I wasn't ready to acknowledge it was over and done, even when you disappeared with Marie. As long as I had the past, I still had something of you._ "I own it."

"What was I…what was David like?"

 _David was everything._

She wants to answer; but she can't. Talking about the man she loved, _still loves_ , to the man who bears every aspect of him but his memory is asking too much. So she ignores his question.

"I'm waiting for it to get better," she tells him, recalling his words at the bus depot.

There is such intense guilt in his expression, visible even in the blue moonlight. "Nicky, I'm sorry for everything. And I'm sorry…that I don't know you."

 _Oh God why would he say that? Why couldn't he just be aloof? Why is he showing her the heart that was David Webb?_

"Maybe…maybe at the end of the world, you will again," she muses thoughtfully.

"The end of the world?"

"Yes. Because then there would be nothing left but conflagration and redemption," she says in an aching voice. "The streets would be burning and the city in anarchy, and people will be screaming and crying and fighting…and you'll find me in all that chaos, and you'll say, 'I know who I am. I remember everything.'"

Nicky drops her face into her hands, the pain finally too much. She doesn't care that she's weeping in front of the one man who could give her succor; but who is also the root of her pain.

Bourne freezes next to her; she can feel the tension in his body. But then an arm snakes around her shoulders, and though she resists initially, he pulls her against his body. For long, long moments, she cries and he does nothing but hold her.

When at last her sobbing stops and she quiets, she keeps her hands to her face, but he pulls them away, looks down at her tearstained face. He gently brushes away the wet tracks with the backs of his fingers, his thumb moving slowly over her soft mouth. She looks up at him, at how familiar he is, and how much of a stranger.

Those blue, blue eyes that she knows even in the darkness.

The universe takes a breath, and pauses with them.

Jason lowers his head and Nicky doesn't turn away.

Jason Bourne doesn't kiss like David Webb.

David savored his kisses with her, took his time. It's so different, this kiss. It's passionate and deadly and heartbreaking all at once. Jason Bourne is feral, precise, urgent, his mouth slanted across hers with purpose, with intent. His hands are tangled in her hair, and when he falls back on the sofa, she is pulled down with him.

He kisses like a man for whom nothing is left, for whom all is new. And it is: he has no recollection of his first kiss, of other women he's kissed; only Marie Kreutz. Nicky knows that in all the ways that matter, she's the second woman whose lips have touched his, whose body is sprawled over his, whose face is cradled by his hands.

He stops abruptly; his hands are hard as he pushes her upright. Nicky gasps, disoriented by his sudden refusal. In the scarce light, she can make out his features; he is staring up at her, utterly bemused, his body trusting her in a way his brain and his heart don't; because those parts of him don't remember her, but the strong chest, the ridged plain of his stomach, the hard thighs, and the span across his hips recall the familiarity of her body, its lushness, its heat, its scent.

Even in the half light she can see he is disturbed. He shoves at her, gets out from underneath her, stalks to the windows. His breathing is harsh. So is hers.

"I can't," he says bleakly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, Nicky. I don't know if I keep coming to you because of the conditioning or if it's something I naturally feel – I think it is, I think it _must_ be if I – if I loved – if _David_ loved you as much as you love him – but I'm not David. I'm not even the Bourne you knew. You love someone that I'm…not."

They are shadows in the dark, two disparate silhouettes bent with sorrow.

"Who are you?" she whispers.

"I don't know. I knew who I was with…" His voice trails off, as desolate as how she feels, and he ends with the one word that is barbed wire to Nicky's senses. "…Marie."

"I know how you feel." Nicky's voice breaks and she doesn't care. "I lost someone, too. I'm not over him, either."

She gets up and walks to the bedroom, praying with every step that she does not collapse.


	19. Chapter 19

Is it the wicked or the weary that get no rest?

Which is she?

Nicky gives up the pretense of sleep, the morning light warming her face as she opens her eyes. She hates that the sun is out, hates that light filters through the window sheers, bright and cheerful. Why isn't the world more attuned to her feelings? Why isn't there a dark and raging storm outside? Will there ever be respite from the wreck that is her life?

Rolling onto her back, she stares up at the white ceiling, absently noting some cobwebs in the corner that need to be brushed away. She stretches out her long limbs, wincing as muscles protest painfully, the effect of being curled in fetal position for hours on end. How much "sleep" did she get? An hour, maybe? Her eyes feel like grit is coating the undersides of her lids. The last time she cried that long and that hard was…uncomfortably she pushes the thought away.

She can smell the fresh brew of coffee; her neighbors, she thinks, beginning their day. She doesn't drink coffee; tea is her métier, but the roast smells so good to her sleep and peace deprived mind, she considers brewing a pot. She wonders if there's any coffee in the apartment.

 _Not since Dav-_

She cuts off that thought, too. _Enough. No more._ No more memories, she decides. She's already expended enough of herself in the night.

She has so much to do in the next four days, to set up the distraction Cross needs to keep Byers' focus off the NRAG system so Cross and his hacker can sneak into Byers' network.

Nicky's not certain Cross' plan is enough. Byers is already on alert. However badly he wants them, he's too smart, too devious to accept a break in pattern. Byers deals in arrays: how things align and repeat, how configurations display and arrange themselves. That's why his programs are masterpieces: randomness is bred out, leaving consistency.

"Does it matter if we get his attention?" Cross wondered.

No, maybe not. But Nicky's not comfortable with what feels like a weak premise. For Byers to buy into their distraction, there has to be more. There has to be _something_ viable, something that makes the distraction a truth.

"We need at least half a day, maybe less in their network to take what we need," Cross determined. Half a day is a really long time in the parlance of their profession.

She needs to get up and get things started.

Throwing back the duvet, Nicky gets up and stumbles into her bathroom, enticed by the strong smell of coffee. Fuck it, she thinks. She'll go pick some up some beans later.

She brushes her teeth while running the shower so the water warms up. Eyeing herself in the mirror she frowns. She's way too pale, her eyes are puffy and she looks like utter shit. Perfect, she thinks. She looks exactly like how she feels.

Fifteen minutes later, her skin stinging from the blazing hot shower, she doesn't feel any better.

Which is why, when she pads into the central room to find Jason Bourne at her dining table reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee in hand, she cannot stop the enraged shriek that erupts.

"WHAT THE FUCK PART OF 'GO AWAY' DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?"

Jason, who looked up at her entry, is startled by the scream; emotions chase across his face before he settles back into passivity. He looks away from her, returning his attention to the newspaper, but not before Nicky catches the heated interest in his blue eyes; and she realizes that she's barely dressed: she's wrapped in a short robe that's way too low at top and too high on her thighs. Without a word, Nicky pivots on her heel and double times it back to her room, slamming the door behind her. She is flushed, mortified.

 _He's seen more than this_ , she reminds herself as she pulls on a fine cashmere pullover and loose jeans.

Nicky pauses at the door, her hand wrapped around the handle. _Why is he still here?_

Her head explodes with pain, the urge to weep suffusing her senses. Why is he still here? She'd assumed he'd left. Has he been here all this time? Did he hear her crying last night? How much more torture is she expected to endure? She considers turning the lock and staying in this room until he leaves. But if he doesn't leave? This room is its own torture chamber.

Then she gets mad. She's done with the self cutting that is Jason Bourne in her life _._ This is _her_ flat. She's not ceding it to him. With renewed ferocity, she opens the door and marches back out, ready to deliver the mother of all tongue lashings. She's pulled up short when she sees he's no longer at the dining room table; but the whistle of a tea kettle draws her to the kitchen. In the kitchen, Nicky finds the Moka coffee pot on the range, steam rising from its spout; so that was the source of the rich coffee she smelled.

Jason is at the stove, lifting the kettle from the burner next to the coffeepot. He pours the hot water into a teapot and sets the kettle back on the range. Crossing the room, he extracts a crimson Harvard mug from a cabinet, sets an English tea strainer over it as if he does this every day. Nicky finds his unerring ease in the kitchen deeply unsettling. Does he know where everything is, or did he search the cabinets and drawers before she came out?

The scent wafting from the steeping tea is her favorite blend. She glances at the counter and spies the black tin with its marigold label. He must have found an unopened tin of loose tea leaves in the back of the pantry. But as her gaze takes in the other items on the counter, Nicky's stomach lurches. There's a box stamped with the name of a nearby _patisserie_ ; ice slides down her spine. The pastry shop they used to frequent together, as a matter of fact.

Is he remembering…or is he impelled by instinct? Is he _aware_ of what he's doing?

For a few moments, they stand in silence, she too dumbfounded to speak, he deliberately keeping his gaze on the tea pot. Finally he pours tea over the strainer with practiced ease. Dark liquid flows through the holes, and bits of loose tea leaves gather in the strainer.

"I got some _pain au chocolat_ and some _croissant_ ," he says, nodding at the box.

The vise squeezing the life out of her eases fractionally. She doesn't care for either of those. So he doesn't remember.

He sets down the teapot and continues: "…But I thought…" He frowns, stops, reaching for a second open pastry box on the counter. He holds it out to her and Nicky's breath catches at what's inside. "…you might like this."

It's a puff pastry twist encrusted with almond, sugar and pastry cream called _sacristain_. It's a specialty of Provence, and it was Nicky's favorite thing to eat for breakfast.

 _I can't breathe. I can't breathe_.

She should have thrown him out last night. Out the door, out the window. Whichever was expedient.

He's watching her carefully; that he doesn't react make Nicky grateful for the training which keeps her facial expressions neutral. Nicky ruthlessly marshals what remains of her composure to take the box from him, noting that her hand does not shake. He jerks his chin toward the door.

"I'll bring…the…" He gestures at the tea cup and the coffeepot.

"No."

She sets the pastry box down on the counter, hard.

"Get out," she demands, her voice harsh.

Jason draws himself up, and inhales deeply. He's not much taller than her; but the breadth of his shoulders, the lean frame, and that vigilant bearing intimate a forceful presence. Everything about him demands notice.

* * *

 _Then_

"There's nothing more to say," David says unequivocally.

Nicky wants to scream. Her nerves are taut, her brain is fried. Her heart is pounding so hard she can feel the staccato beat at the pulse in her neck. "You don't get to say that and walk out. I need…I _need_ space, I need a moment – what you – what you –" Her voice sputters, her train of thought derailing again, as it has been for the last hour. She literally can't think straight.

David gets directly in her face, blue eyes hard, his voice harsh. "And that's why I'm telling you we're _done_ talking."

Everything is pressing in on her and she needs distance from him. He's not having any of it.

In all their time together, she's never seen David as angry as he is now. Jason, yes. At work, she's seen Jason lose control, but only once, when an op went pear-shaped. He'd lashed out at her during their debrief. Or rather, an asset censured his handler for her management of his mission. It had been deserved: she'd made a strategic error that could have been more costly had Jason not been so deeply experienced. He'd driven her to tears, actually, before storming out of the room; fucking _Conklin_ had come in to offer her some words of comfort and reassurance.

"You fucked up," Conklin had said. He'd agreed with Bourne's assessment of the mission and the critical mistake she'd made. "But you're good at what you do, Parsons. You're a good handler for Bourne. Don't fuck up like this again."

She'd swallowed her tears, schooled her features into the impassive mask expected of all Treadstone assets and bobbed her head. She'd scuttled out of the room, making way for a restroom where she spent thirty minutes getting her shit together. The rest of the day, Bourne had avoided her.

But as soon as she'd come back to the flat that night, David had been waiting at the front door, ready to pull her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, his embrace tight.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he'd murmured against her neck.

It was like emotional whiplash; it had taken her a moment to relax, to recall _this_ man and juxtapose him against the person she worked with.

"I'm sorry," she'd answered, her voice shaking. "I fucked up."

He'd kissed her hair, her ear, her cheek, her lips, his mouth loving and gentle against hers, hands cradling her jaw. Bourne had been right to excoriate her; any other agent would have. Not doing so would have raised red flags.

There isn't going to be any kissing this time; David is _furious_.

"David, this isn't your call," she argues, her voice quavering. Fear is shredding everything inside, driving her intense need to flee.

" _Fuck that_ ," he all but roars at her. "Do _not_ leave."

"You need to go," she informs him.

He snarls.

She grabs his wrist and points at his watch. "You're going to be late."

He yanks his hand back. His movements are jerky, erratic; he's burly, big, and suddenly in her face. But she's not afraid of him, and he's not trying to intimidate her; he's simply planting himself where he feels he belongs: with her.

For a moment, they're frozen in place, both of them highly agitated and breathing hard. Then he turns to her again and it's all Nicky can do to stay upright; the look on his face is pleading and poignant.

"Nicky, as soon as this mission is over, I'm coming back for you." He exhales slowly, stretching out a hand, cupping her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, eyes fixed on her face as though he were memorizing every detail about her. "I'll come for you."

* * *

 _Now_

Jason looks at Nicky steadily, blue eyes dark.

"We're not done talking," he says unequivocally.


	20. Chapter 20

"What do you _want_ from me?" Nicky shouts, fists clenched by her sides. " _Why_ are you still here?"

Everything in this room is at once familiar and completely foreign: the tea, the coffee, the pastries, the man. This man instinctively knows what breakfast should comprise, but he does not know her at all. It's like being in a funhouse where the reflections are warped. That's her entire relationship with Jason Bourne now: a convex image, everything distorted and upside down.

"We're not done talking."

"You already know about Treadstone and Conklin and Abbott and Neski. You tried to bring down Blackbriar but Vosen's still kicking and Landy's facing treason charges now. Byer rules them all."

"Not that, Nicky."

Nicky's heart slams in her chest. "What else _is_ there?"

He doesn't react to her outburst; he remains calm. "What I don't know is what happened to me on that boat. Was there an objective beyond killing Wombosi? Were they testing something and I got a raw deal? Did…did Treadstone do something to me? Was it a set up, some new protocol? Did…did you…"

Nicky feels that near accusation like a punch in the gut. She can't believe the pain that roils through her. _"_ Fuck. You _."_

He doesn't pursue the thought, acknowledges her denial and silence descends.

"I'm sorry." His voice is quiet, regretful.

She focuses on the refrigerator, at the handwritten notes kept in place by solid round magnets.

 _Breathe. In. Out. Breathe._

Nicky reaches for the teacup, stealing what time she can. She can't talk, not yet, not if she doesn't want to howl. She observes again that her hand is steady, her body betraying not one iota of the turmoil she feels. Nicky inhales the floral notes in the tea before she takes a careful sip, the liquid hot enough to scald. Why did he know to make tea? _This_ tea? She sets the teacup back down on the counter. The pretense at normalcy can only hold for so long; better to be as blank a slate as him than to betray the vulnerability of a shaking hand.

"Nicky." He sounds so tired, so worn out. "I don't know anything about me other than a bare set of facts. I keep coming back to what you said – I was never debriefed so they don't know what went haywire with me. If they're afraid it can happen to their other assets, they're not going to stop until they get me and dissect me."

He's not wrong.

Bourne looks at her quizzically, expectantly. Belatedly, Nicky realizes she spoke aloud.

 _In the safe house, Conklin screaming at Bourne._

 _"He's lost it! You'd better start filling in the blanks here. Boy, you don't what you're doing, do you, Jason? You don't have a goddamned clue! You're a total goddamned catastrophe and by God, if it kills me, you're gonna tell me how this happened!"_

She continues: "After…the safe house, they had me in lockdown for weeks, questioning me, going over everything that happened."

For two weeks she'd been held at a Treadstone facility, their analysts interviewing her, probing for answers. They'd wanted to know why Bourne had spared her, what had been discussed between him and Conklin. They'd wanted her impressions of Bourne's behavior, his mannerisms, his expressions. She'd answered everything truthfully as she'd observed it – including her opinion that Bourne appeared to be suffering from some sort of amnesia. Separate teams of interrogators had been in her face, asking the same questions, logging the answers she'd provided, comparing it against what she'd said previously.

He waits.

"They were trying to figure out what happened to you. Then they investigated Conklin's death."

His brows rise fractionally. Nicky knows Bourne had nothing to do with it; she'd known from the moment Conklin left that safe house without answers that he was a loose end, a dead man. When they'd placed her on administrative leave after her debriefing, she'd seriously wondered if she was a loose end, too.

"After they cleared me, I was part of the team responsible for analyzing your…digression."

Because he hadn't been available for dissection, they'd re-evaluated and reassessed the mission, trying to figure out what could have gone wrong, what had caused Bourne to fail so spectacularly. They'd pored over documentation, the mission research and logistics, the memos; they'd reviewed tapes of the briefing Nicky had given him, specialists studying every aspect of Bourne's demeanor, his answers, his tone of voice, his body language.

Six months of her life had been devoted to this. Even after the final presentations and conclusions had been delivered, the question remained unanswered: "What happened to Bourne?"

"They weren't willing to accept that you had –have disassociative amnesia, but they couldn't isolate any anomalies in the mission profile. So they went back and reviewed the prior ten missions. And then the twenty missions before that." She pauses. "Then they pulled all the assets and subjected them to the same conditions you'd experienced on the Wombosi mission. None of them succumbed. None of them failed."

She doesn't talk about the further torturous conditions to which the assets had been subjected in an effort to induce a similar mental collapse.

"Ultimately they had to conclude that what happened on the Wombosi mission was an aberration. Not all of them were willing to buy off on the amnesia thing, though. Some of them still think you're operating on full capacity because none of the others broke."

"Who normally debriefed me after my missions?"

"I did."

"Do it." It's a request, but his tone brooks no refusal.

"Why?" counters Nicky.

"Maybe it gets us to what happened."

Everything in her leaps at his offer and simultaneously screams with fear. In private, Nicky had studied the mission through the eyes of Bourne's lover, held the secret knowledge of what had transpired that morning to the light. They'd argued about her leaving; but they'd argued before and he'd never miscarried a mission. Not a single one. Treadstone assets did not deviate… _ever._ They were so regimented, regulated to the point of compartmentalizing everything. The Professor, for example, had been sent out on a mission after Maggie – Nicky pauses, thinks about her former colleague. The Professor had been sent out on a mission after Maggie – and he'd finished his task without a single hitch.

Bourne's failure is a complete anomaly, so severe – _amnesia!_ – that the distraction of an argument with his lover could not alone be the answer.

So what _had_ happened to him?

She ponders for a moment, considers what has to be done, then lifts her chin, brown eyes determined and hard. "All right." _This has to end. You're killing me._ "But not here and not now." She looks away. "I have…things to take care of."

"Cross."

It's not a question. She nods.

His jaw clenches. "Jesus. You're really going through with helping him?"

"Why does it matter to you? If we succeed, you get some peace from them. If we fail, you're no worse off."

He looks at her as if he wants to argue a point. She knows why _David_ would have objected: because she's putting herself on the line for a stranger, _with_ a stranger, for no clearly achievable outcome. It's harder to get a handle on Bourne. He wants to warn her off; but he doesn't know why or what to say. So he's silent, and conflicted.

"I can meet you in two days," she tells him. "At my old apartment in the Marais, the one I used when I worked for Treadstone."

He looks at her dubiously. Returning to her former flat could be as dangerous as going to the one he'd lived in whilst under his Treadstone guise.

"It's where I stashed copies of that mission file and the analysis from Treadstone."

His eyes widen.

"I thought…maybe some day they'd be useful."

"Why aren't the files here?"

"Because…" Her breath hitches but she forges on. "Because they aren't."

She can see him weighing his decision. Finally, he nods. "All right."

She recites the address for the Marais flat, watches him commit it to memory. "21:00, when it's dark. Too risky to expose ourselves when they're looking for us. Keep low until then."

It's as much a dismissal as a directive. He gives her a considering look, those blue eyes sharp, flinty. With a brusque nod, he walks past her out the kitchen door. Nicky does not turn to watch him leave; but when she hears the door open, then close, she lets go of a shuddering breath.

Lifting her hand, she observes it trembling finally.

* * *

Marta studies her right hand in the morning light, notes the long, elegant fingers. The taper of joint and knuckle to the fingertips could have been a pianist's dream, but had been beautifully suited instead to a lab. Her skin is smooth, though not unblemished; some burn marks, some minor scars. But the hand is steady as she spreads her fingers, no tremor visible as she considers the whorls of her knuckles, the oval of her nails. Her hand is steady in the light of a dawning Berlin morning.

After leaving Nicky's flat two nights ago, Aaron had secured a car…or rather, he'd stolen one, changed the license plates, and they'd been on their way to the A1/E19 headed for Germany. It had been nerve wracking, passing through the border to Belgium two hours into the drive. She'd been fearful of being recognized, especially with the heightened alerts from Interpol; but Aaron had counted on the late night, the bored and tired border patrol to simply wave through Monsieur and Madame Alain Grignan, of Paris. Another two and a half hours had seen a repetition of the scenario at the German border, this time with another car tag and two more identities, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Livry of America, on tour through Europe. Once again, they'd been waved through after a cursory check and a few brief questions. Another four hours and they'd arrived in Berlin. He'd ditched the car on the outskirts of the city and they'd taken a cab to Friedrichshain, a quiet little neighborhood adjacent to Mitte and Prenzlauer Berg.

Aaron has a flat in a non-descript building a few streets off Karl Marx Allee, the main boulevard that bisects the neighborhood. The flat is surprisingly large, a wide square with the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen on one side, the living room occupying the other half. The walls might have been white once, but are now yellowing, the floors a serviceable wood. The apartment is basic, devoid of architectural flourishes, and saved from being sterile only by the two large windows that overlook a green space across the street.

"Rent's cheap," he'd explained. "People living here are mainly students, leftists, and artists."

"In a few years it's going to be highly desirable to live here," she'd observed, walking to the window and admiring the leafy park across the road.

"I'll sell it then and pocket the cash," he had said.

"How do _you_ have a flat in Berlin?" she'd inquired.

"Lab rats get smart, Doc. You didn't notice we were getting paranoid and mistrustful?"

"Oh I noticed. I just didn't think it was manifesting with you acquiring a real estate portfolio."

He'd hitched the duffel full of cash and passports further up on his shoulder. "I don't know about the others but if they were anything like me, they were skimming every chance they got and acquiring sizeable chunks of cash and hidey holes."

Shortly after settling her into the flat, he'd gone off to meet with his hacker, eliciting a promise that she stay in the apartment till he returned. He hadn't come back until nearly two in the morning, a pattern he repeated the following day.

Marta turns her hand until she's looking at her palm.

Beside her, Aaron's eyes are closed, his breath deep and rhythmic. Sleep has released her from its borders, offering her no refuge. Even after a week in Europe, her body still wants to function on Southeast Asian time. Marta spreads her fingers, watches the early morning light filter through.

A man's hand, scarred and callused, suddenly comes into view, warm, hard fingers lacing with hers until her hand is intertwined with his.

"What're you doing?" he murmurs drowsily.

"Checking," Marta says softly, turning her head to look at Cross. "Some day it's going to shake."

He's wide awake now, watching her from his own pillow. His sandy hair is tousled, those blue eyes intent. "Then I'll hold your hand and keep it still."

She smiles, squeezing his hand, savoring the quiet bond. These moments are few, and in their newfound intimacy, precious. He presses a kiss to the back of her hand. His morning scruff is rough against her skin, and she slides her finger along his jawline.

"You should try to sleep," he tells her. He glances at his wristwatch. "I need to meet up with the kid in a few hours."

"When are you expecting Nicky –"

"Tomorrow, latest. Some of the admins have begun changing their passwords. The window's tight."

"Aaron, will this work?"

He doesn't lie to her. "I don't know. Too many things hinge on something else. It's not as clean cut as I'd like."

"Should we pull it?"

"We can. But…there's not a lot to lose with this scenario. We hack their system, steal their files, leave and hold the info hostage. We're invisible to them – everything's on a network, everything's spoofed to look like it's one of their own in the network."

"But Nicky has to expose herself and be bait."

He nodded. "I don't like it, but Nicky says she can do it. She says she's got an angle to play, and to trust her."

"Do you?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Aaron…If…if we don't get the files, what next?"

"We all go underground again." His lips flatten. "I unload my Swiss accounts, we find ourselves somewhere quiet and keep our heads down."

"You don't have a private island in your real estate portfolio, do you?"

His blue eyes brighten with amusement. "I couldn't skim _that_ much money without you guys noticing."

"A little village where we won't be noticed?" Her voice begins to take on a dreamy note. "Maybe a little house at the seaside and we can walk the beach?"

He plays along. "Sure. Get a dog?"

She smiles happily at the thought.

He looks at her seriously. "Do you want kids?"

Her answer is swift. "No. God no." As if aware her immediate refusal might be taken as an insult, she strokes his jawline gently. "If things were different, I'd give anything to have your kids. But Aaron, _my_ kids have the worst odds in the world – fifty percent chance – to get this godawaful disease. So no. I don't want to inflict this curse on them. Apart from spending your life wondering if you're at risk for dying early, watching your parent die the way I watched my mother die isn't something I'd ever want our child to endure."

She doesn't bring up the fact that their child would be growing up in an endangered life, on the run from shadowy figures.

He nods, his head sliding on the pillow.

A soft sound escapes her, akin to a sigh. "I like those words, though."

His blue eyes are curious. "What words?"

"Our child," she whispers wistfully.

* * *

Nicky is so damned tired. The last 48 hours have been a whirlwind of activity, scoping out and setting up her planned entry and exit routes, calculating every step in executing her plan. Everything requires precision timing. Her head is down as she comes to the intersection of her former residence. She's dressed in dark clothing, a cap over her gathered blond hair.

The Marais is one of Paris' most fashionable districts, stretching across the 3rd and 4th _arondissements_. Nicky's old apartment is in the quieter, northern 3rd _arondissement_ , at the corner of Rue des Gravilliers and Rue Beaubourg. The honey-colored, stone building faces a smooth, white limestone counterpart. The ground floor houses shops, restaurants and storefronts, while the residential apartments occupy the five floors above.

The street lamps are lit, the cafes and eateries along the boulevards busy with a late dinner crowd. Nicky enters the amber-colored walk-up building. The round foyer is dark: the overhead light fixture appears to be broken. She knows that to her left are the residents' mailboxes. A man detaches himself from the shadows of the opposite wall and walks toward her. Ah. That would explain the darkened lobby: Bourne disabled the light.

"Follow me," she says, approaching the digital keypad for the glass doors which bar entry to the residences. Beyond the door are an elevator, and a door leading to the stairwell. She swiftly enters a code and the light flashes green, a resounding click indicating the door is open. She pushes through and beelines for the stairs, bypassing the elevator. Bourne follows behind her, his movements nearly silent. She can hear his unasked question.

"It's the manager's building passcode. I snagged it years ago. I figured my code wouldn't work any more, but his was likely to stay the same."

"Security?" he asks.

"Other than the digicode keyboard to enter, minimal," she replies. "There aren't cameras or anything."

"There weren't then," he corrects. "But now?"

"I don't know." So they keep their faces averted in case there are new security measures, their movements swift as she leads him up to the fourth floor. Entering the hallway to her previous residence, Nicky feels her nerves tensing. Unlike the flat they'd shared, this one will have no hallmarks of a life lived together. However, it is a repository of memories more painful than anything endured in the flat in Montparnasse.

She's got to end this soon, Nicky decides. She's got to finish this _thing_ with him, get away from him and move on with her life. She cannot bear being continually dragged into a past he does not recall.

The hallway bisects four apartments, two doors on either side at opposite ends. Nicky heads towards the door furthest down on the left.

"Aren't there people living here now?" Bourne asks in a low voice.

"No. It's a furnished corporate apartment. I've already checked. It's vacant."

That's as much of an explanation as she's willing to give him; and he takes it at face value. Bourne shields her in case a resident enters the hallway. They're both on edge, the warm light in the hallway exposing them. Despite the high tech digital lock in the lobby, all the resident apartments are fitted with old fashioned deadbolt locks. It's child's play for her to pull out a set of lock picks and swiftly manipulate the tumblers to open the door.

Bourne locks the door behind them. Nicky draws in a ragged breath as she takes in her former home. The French windows filter in moonlight, making the white walls appear silvery. The room is in shadows, simply furnished: a sofa bed against one wall, a dining table for two opposite, by the kitchen door. That wall is mirrored, reflecting the moonlit view of the sofa. A round rug separates the sofa from the table, a glass coffee table centered upon it. Nicky averts her gaze from the living room, the rug and the mirror, feeling her heart beat faster as she scurries toward the door leading to the bedroom. In the bedroom are a full-sized bed, side tables, and a wardrobe facing the window.

Pulling out a pen light, she shines it above the bed at a square vent in the corner where the walls meet.

"There," says Nicky.


	21. Chapter 21

Nicky pulls the bedside table directly under the vent and pushes it against the wall, checking it for stability. She hauls herself up, and uneven table teeters. Bourne comes up behind her but Nicky shifts her weight until the table stops shaking.

She extracts a Leatherman tool from her jacket, opening the flathead screwdriver implement, swiftly loosening the screws holding the vent in place. Yanking the slatted cover off the wall, she hands it to Bourne and lifts on her toes, reaching deep into the hole. At first, her hand sweeps across a thick layer of dust and emptiness; but then her hand encounters a package. She exhales with relief and pulls out a plastic bag which houses a thick brown accordion folder.

Nicky turns to hand the envelope to Bourne. The nightstand wobbles and she curses as she totters unsteadily. The package hits the ground and Bourne grabs her off the table before she falls, his chest hard against her back, his arm tight under her breasts. For a moment, her body relaxes in his embrace, everything in her remembering his warmth, his smell, the past which binds them. Then comes the present, and she jerks hard out of his hold, snapping to her feet, her slender frame stiff and unyielding. She stoops to grab the folder, turns away.

"Let's go," she says.

"The vent?"

"Fuck it."

She won't turn around to look at him as she leads the way out of the apartment, keeping her eyes stonily fixed on the door, never allowing herself to glance at the living room.

* * *

In a debriefing there is an elicitor and a source. Unlike interrogations, debriefings generally involve a cooperative or willing subject providing details to the Human Intelligence – known by the shortened HUMINT – specialist. Information collection is one of the CIA's chief capabilities and it's one at which Nicky excels. At its simplest, a debriefing is an interview, but the quality of information that gets accumulated is based on a variety of factors including the subject's willingness to disclose, and the specialist's skill at directing and redirecting the line of questioning. A vital component in any debriefing is the rapport between subject and specialist.

Nicky sits across from Bourne at the dining room table in the Montparnasse apartment, realizing that for the first time in years – since the initial weeks when she'd been assigned to work with him – she has no familiarity with this man. There is neither bond nor affinity. She feels disoriented. Normally they'd start with mission brief and walk chronologically through every step. The folder lays open on the table before her, all but useless. His story doesn't start with the mission. It starts with his failure.

Bourne sits quietly, spine straight, hands loosely clasped as he watches her quiet struggle. Disconcerted by that steady gaze, she turns to look out the window, the Paris night laid out in sparkling lights and dusky hues.

From the Marais, it is less than twenty minutes by car to the Montparnasse flat, but Nicky had the cab driver drop her and Bourne off at Rue Écoles; from there, they had walked part of the way, first together, then separating to take other transportation back to the flat. Nicky had back tracked, establishing random routes before making her way back to Montparnasse, where she'd sprinted up the stairs to find Bourne waiting for her in the landing. It was an echo to a few days earlier and she was as unsettled now as then to find him outside the home they'd once shared.

"Nicky."

Nicky blinks. From the hint of impatience on his face, she gathers she must have called her name more than once.

"What's wrong?"

Nicky sighs. "Do you even know what a debriefing entails?"

"You ask me questions, I answer."

"Yes and no. It's more complicated than that." Her lips press together. "In a normal debrief, there's a specific plan and any collection of information is intended to meet that plan. It's not just about obtaining intelligence, but assessing the interviewee's character and personality, figuring out how much psychological pressure I can use, challenging details you provide to me, introducing new information or stimulating responses based on what I know about you and the mission." She gestures helplessly. "I don't have a baseline read on you. I don't know what you look and sound like when you're telling the truth, when you're lying, or when you're withholding information."

She doesn't know what triggers _this_ Bourne, what carrots or sticks he'll respond to, how far she can push. It reiterates how much has changed, how much has been lost.

"Just ask me the questions. I won't lie to you."

 _Do you remember anything – anything AT ALL – about me?_ The question flies to tip of her tongue, but Nicky forestalls, recalling a conversation and a similarly phrased question in a Madrid café:

 _Why are you helping me?_

 _It was difficult for me…with you. You really don't remember anything?_

 _No._

Nicky takes a breath, composes herself. "What's the first thing you can remember?"

His answer comes swiftly: "Water. Water and pain."

Nicky mirrors his posture, her fingers lacing together as she waits. Only the kitchen light is on, and its ambient light casts shadows across his face.

"I was fished out of the Mediterranean by an Italian fishing trawler. They thought I was dead. I should have been. I'd been shot twice in the back. One of the fishermen – he pulled the bullet fragments out."

"That must have hurt."

"Probably like a motherfucker," Bourne agrees. "But I was passed out cold. Until he cut into my hip."

Nicky frowns. "Cut?"

"He sliced in and dug out the cylinder that had been implanted in my leg with the Swiss bank information."

Nicky nods, encouraging him, but her pulse is rapid.

"When I regained consciousness, I was lying on a table, I was in pain, I couldn't remember anything. I thought he was trying to hurt me, so I grabbed him."

Bourne tells her about his shouted conversation with the fisherman, demanding to know what was happening, what the man was doing. How the man had shown him the bullet fragments, then asked for his name.

"I didn't know my name," Jason says dully, the memory clearly still bewildering.

"How did you feel?"

"How the fuck do you think it made me feel?"

Nicky pushes. "I meant: did you feel that you really couldn't remember –or that you didn't _want_ to?"

The blue eyes are blazing. "I _couldn't_ remember anything. Not even what I _looked_ like."

"Clarify that," Nicky requests gently. "What does 'anything' entail?"

His brows are furrowed. "I didn't know who I was. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember anything about me. Who I was, where I'd come from. Nothing about my family, where I'd grown up – literally everything was a blank from the moment I came to while he was digging out the capsule in my hip."

"How long before Switzerland was this?"

"A little more than two weeks."

Nicky looks down at the mission memo, puts her finger on that moment in the timeline, then gestures with her hand, indicating that he should continue. He frowns.

"Don't you need to take notes?"

She shakes her head. "Method of loci. I have a mental filing system."

 _It's why every memory scars. She can recall details almost perfectly._

"I could make coffee, shuffle cards, set up a chess board. Play chess. I could do hundreds of push ups and sit ups five days after being fished out of the sea with bullets in my back and do it without feeling pain." His eyes take on a faraway cast. "I could…fish. I knew how to fish. I liked…fishing." His voice trails off, then he picks up again. "We were at sea for two weeks. Then I was back on land. The guy who'd saved my life – Giancarlo - gave me some money to go to Zurich."

Zurich.

 _When Jason Bourne rose from the dead._

* * *

 _Then_

"Get your ass in the situation room now," shouts Conklin.

Nicky's head snaps up. Conklin looks fit to be tied, his face drawn with fury. Zorn is behind him, equally as agitated.

" _NOW_!" snarls Conklin.

Nicky hurriedly gets up from her desk and follows after him. Conklin's pace is at a near run as he orders three other analysts to join them. There's soon a small group following him and Zorn, expressions of confusion and concern mirrored on every face.

They're all like lemmings, thinks Nicky. She wonders if they're all heading over a cliff.

They filter into the pristine rectangular room, fanning around the long oval table that faces a situation wall. The table is flanked on either side by windows, one wall providing a view of Paris, the other looking out at the Treadstone cubicle farm. One of the analysts pushes a switch by the door and the electrochromic glass of both walls go opaque.

Conklin snaps his fingers and points at a Com Tech. "Pull it up."

The tech is already on his computer, hooking it up to the overhead projection system. The white background flashes, blips, then a frozen video appears on screen. He clicks the space bar on his computer and the image unfreezes. It's security footage, black and white, showing a man standing in front of a car, a drawstring bag thrown over one shoulder.

All the air leaves Nicky's lungs. She's grateful all of her cohorts are staring at the screen, that none them are looking at her because there's no way she can hide her reaction. It's David!

 _He's alive!_

Wild hope careens through her, filling the dead spaces with impossible joy. _He's alive!_

But then bewilderment sets in. _If he's alive, what the hell is he doing? Why hasn't he checked in with them? With_ _ **her**_

"This was an hour ago," Conklin informs them. "Bourne's alive and he's just cleared out the Zurich account."

Nicky blinks. _What?_

"What's he doing?" wonders an analyst out loud.

"Doesn't matter," Conklin says flatly. "Everyone's been activated. Bourne's going in a body bag by the end of the day."

And just as swiftly, all hope is replaced by black despair.

* * *

 _Now_

Jason takes her verbally through his foray into Switzerland, the bank, the U.S. Consulate altercation and his escape from Zurich to Paris, following the address listed on Jason Bourne's passport.

She refers to the timeline of Jason's movements from the time he surfaced at the bank. She follows along with his story, retracing certain routes, asking for a deeper view of other events.

"Just a moment," Nicky interrupts. "You said you secured a ride from Zurich to Paris. How? With whom?"

His eyes are sharp with pain, although his expression remains slack. Nicky braces herself.

"Marie was at the consulate…she was having trouble with her visa. She didn't have…money. I had a bag full of it. I asked her to drive me to Paris for $10,000. I promised her another ten grand when we got there."

Nicky keeps her body still. She can't impose the same moratorium on her brain or her heart though; both organs are sliced with a thousand exact little cuts as Jason recalls his conversation with Marie on the drive to Paris, how they'd planned to part once they got to the Paris apartment, but then Marie followed him inside, sealing her fate to his. Bourne recounts the fight with Castel where he'd defended himself with a pen; Marie's shock and fear when they saw the wanted posters with their faces in Castel's bag; Castel's suicide. How they'd fled.

Behind Jason, on the foyer wall is an ornate, gilded half mirror. Nicky has been staring at her reflection since he began talking about Marie, the better to keep her expressions neutral, passive.

"I kept telling her to leave, go to the police and tell them I'd coerced her into driving me. I told Marie it wasn't safe to be with me. But…she wouldn't leave me. Marie stayed with me. Helped me."

There is a softening in his tone, a flutter of emotion every time he says Marie's name, like a vocal caress. This time, it's Nicky who's the spectator, listening to someone else's love story unfold.

As an interrogator, it's in Nicky's best interest to commiserate, to offer Jason empathy, to agree that Marie was an extraordinary woman and a true friend to him when he needed one. She finds herself unequal to the task, so she remains silent, her eyes focused on her image in the mirror. Occasionally she glances down at the mission file.

The debriefing is not without benefit however; for the first time, Nicky is seeing the _other_ half of the story, the one invisible to Treadstone as they'd hunted Jason Bourne during that frantic week. She can now juxtapose the chaos and mystification at Treadstone over Bourne's behavior with Bourne's explanation and confirmation of his amnesia.

He describes a mad chase scene in Paris in Marie's car until they were able to escape the authorities and find a cheap hotel. "The next day we went to the Hotel Regina and got John Michael Kane's records."

Nicky's antennae are up. He's skipped over a sequence: the night between their flight, and going to the Hotel Regina. Every instinct tells her what happened that night; but the professional in her demands precision, even if it means committing emotional _seppuku._

"Go back and start from when you got to the cheap hotel." Her voice is calm.

Bourne blinks, nonplussed. But then his face hardens. "No."

"Jason –"

" _No._ " Unequivocal. Possessive. The inference: _That's_ _ **my**_ _memory._

She stares at him, a thousand conflicted feelings reflected in the turmoil of his blue eyes. He looks away, mulish.

She may not know _this_ man but she knows that expression. That night is his private domain and he won't share it. And frankly, she doesn't want to know. She's not going to protest his refusal to hand her the knife for her own disembowelment.

Her eyes flick up to the mounted clock. Forty-five minutes have passed. _Already_? According to the event timeline, this is the halfway point to Jason's story, the ending of which was the assault on the Treadstone safe house.

"Go on." Her tone is inert.

He continues with the pursuit by the authorities and Marie's decision to take them to the country home owned by her former boyfriend, who showed up unexpectedly with his kids and dog.

"I was talking to her that night…and I decided I didn't want to be who I'd been before, do what I'd done. I wanted to be with Marie. We had the money. She thought we could just go away and hide and I could be free."

Nicky's nod is curt, just a slight drop of her head.

He describes the following morning, when the dog disappeared. "I knew it had to be Treadstone. I also knew where the assassin was waiting."

"The Professor."

"That's what you called him?"

"That's what he actually did for a living when he wasn't called up to serve Treadstone. Owen taught in Barcelona."

"The phone lines were dead so I ordered everyone into the basement. We'd been in the same program. It served that we thought similarly. If I were attacking the house, what would I need to do? Where would I go and set up for a kill shot? I had a shotgun and I needed to get closer to him, so I blew up the fuel tank. I figured it would draw his attention and I could leave the house for the woods. He took a shot, exposed his position, so he had no choice but to clear the area and find a new vantage point. He took the field. I fired a shot and sent birds into the air to cover me while I worked my way in. He knew he'd been caught and tried to get out. I shot him. Twice." Bourne's voice is hollow, matter-of-fact, as he recites the summary of the Professor's death. "He was still alive when I got to him. He told me about Treadstone. The headaches. The lights. He said that we worked alone. Then he died."

There is genuine sorrow on Nicky's reflection in the mirror. She can't stop it from blooming across her features, from the droop of her mouth to the downcast eyes.

"He was someone to you?"

"No. He was to someone I cared about." She closes her eyes, wills away the memory of a woman's melodic laughter and bright green eyes. She opens her eyes. Her voice is flat. "Go on."

"I kept some of the money and gave the rest to Marie. I sent her off with her friend and his kids so she'd be safe."

Then he'd taken the Professor's cell phone to set up the meeting with Conklin at Pont Neuf where he'd planted the tracking device and uncovered Treadstone's safe house in Paris.

* * *

 _Then_

"Where's your field box?" shouts Conklin.

Nicky maintains her calm. "It's right there!"

She looks at the display which is flashing red. "The system's gone haywire." She points to the window next to her. "That's this window right here." She knows he's near. She can feel it. He's coming for her at last. She's been so scared by the near misses along the way, how he's nearly died repeatedly despite her quiet efforts to sabotage Treadstone, but she doesn't understand what David's doing. Who is this woman he's been travelling with? Is this David's elaborate scheme to get her out of Treadstone as he'd promised? God she wishes he would call her, give her some sort of heads up about his baffling behavior.

Conklin is freaking out. Nicky feigns confusion as she quietly shuts down the security locks and the power grid, and blocks Treadstone's primary network from zeroing in on their safe house set up. To them, it's as if the safe house no longer exists. It's a blank on their screens.

Right on cue, the safe house goes dark, power rendered inoperational by Nicky. She picks up the phone. "Dead. The phones are dead."

 _Jesus, sound more convincing._ She can't inject fear into her voice though; she's too elated and relieved to manage the pretense more carefully.

It doesn't matter though; Conklin is distracted and agitated. He racks the slide on his CZ-83 9mm pistol.

Outside, multiple car alarms are wailing.

"It's Bourne, isn't it?" Nicky says.

* * *

 _Now_

"You know the rest," says Bourne.

Nicky steeples her fingers. "Walk me through what _you_ saw."

Bourne's recall is perfect: entering the room, effectively ambushing Conklin, and his confused demands for information about Treadstone. Conklin slapping away the Walther P5 compact that Bourne had taken from the Professor. Conklin's enraged diatribe. Bourne recites it nearly verbatim. Jason winces, recalls the flashbacks that hurt his brain before he declared to Conklin:

"I told him I didn't want to do this anymore."

Nicky's finger rests on the last paragraph in the brief.

"Jason, there was a moment when he was talking to you and you hesitated. Conklin thought you remembered what happened on Wombosi's boat. Did you?"

Jason's eyes are dark, moody. He's swallowing hard, his throat working. He's been talking for nearly ninety minutes.

Nicky stands up. "I'll get you some water."

In the kitchen, she grabs a glass and fills it with water. Jason is immobile when she returns, his breath strangely labored. There are shadows on his face, something so tormented in his eyes she pauses. Is this where the mystery of Jason Bourne's failure is finally solved?

She hands him the glass when he starts to talk again.

"I was ready to go. I'd walked into the private quarters. I had my Glock to Wombosi's head. Then…" Jason's eyes are faraway, his expression haunted. "…There was a little kid lying on his chest. Probably one of his children. His…wife and another little kid were…they were sleeping nearby."

Nicky's indrawn breath is swift.

"…And the kid on his chest…she looked up at me. Wombosi, too. They were both looking at me, and Wombosi was trying to push her down, get her away from him. This little…brown-eyed kid."

The glass of water falls from Nicky's nerveless fingers, shattering across the floor. Nicky hears a loud rushing noise, feels her vision narrowing, pinpricks of black clouding her mind. Her body is numb.

 _No._

 _No._

 _No._

She sways, hears Bourne's exclamation of her name as her knees buckle and the ground rushes up to meet her face.

* * *

 _Then_

"Brown eyes are dominant," David says with a sigh. "What do you think, Nicky? A posse of little brown-eyed kids running around? White picket fence?"

Such a pretty fantasy. But she protests: "No white picket fences."

David nods swiftly. "Okay, then let's get a boat and sail away into the sunset with the kids."

The alarm on his watch beeps. They both freeze, then David gives her a quick kiss before he gets out of bed.

Nicky rolls onto her back, watches as David goes to the bathroom. He'll be gone soon. He'll have a final check in before departing. His mission cover as John Michael Kane is intact; she and the analysts have accounted for every possible variance. David doesn't think the mission should take more than a week to execute; then he'll be back.

There's a knot lodged in her throat, in her chest; she can't breathe. It hurts so much to draw air into her lungs. Tears are welling in her eyes. Wrapping her arms around her midsection, she rolls away from the bathroom and faces the windows, considers how the opaque sheers float in the breeze.

A moment later, Nicky hears David come out of the bathroom, but she doesn't turn, keeping her eyes fixed on the windows.

"Nicky?" His voice is soft.

When she doesn't respond, David steps around the bed and crouches down in front of her. He fills her field of vision, lean, broad-shouldered, handsome, blue eyes holding her gaze with steady intent.

Jason holds up a capped white stick. Nicky's eyes focus on the white window with the dark blue cross in its center.

"…Brown-eyed kids, Nicky," David says, his voice low, holding out the positive pregnancy test.


	22. Chapter 22

_Now_

Her hands hit the ground first, years of training and instinct preventing her from face planting on the floor. Glass cuts into her palms. She doesn't register the pain, barely hears Jason's curse, or feel his hands clasp her arms.

" _NICKY!"_ Jason's growl is deep, startled.

She's light-headed as she turns her head toward the sofa and the round hammered steel table.

* * *

 _Then_

From her vantage on the ground next to the round wood coffee table, Nicky can see her prone reflection in the mirrored wall facing the Marais living room. Her skin is so pale against the wood floor, the white of her night shirt soaked with blood. She wonders how they're going to get the stain out of the parquetry.

"Don't leave me, too," she whispers at her reflection. But it's too late.

The baby that was David Webb's is gone. Her soft cry is equal parts loss and physical pain.

It's been five weeks since David…no, he's no longer David…since _Jason Bourne_ fought his way out of the Paris safe house and disappeared after warning them to leave him alone. Treadstone's been in chaos since Alexander Conklin's death. No one's blamed it on Bourne though the implication is made; but they all know what happened and who took him out. Ward Abbott has taken over day to day operations, but several high ranking CIA directors have been in the Treadstone office. She recognized Colonel Eric Byer earlier this week when he silently observed one of her debriefings regarding Jason Bourne.

How many interrogations has she been subjected to? She can't recall any longer. For five weeks, she's been holed up in another Treadstone facility. Between the sleep deprivation and the back-to-back cross examinations, it's all a giant blur. Six days ago, they placed her on administrative leave, during which time she'd checked herself into an out-of-the–way hotel in the Trocadero, and slept with a gun under her pillow. She only got official confirmation yesterday afternoon that she'd been cleared to return to work. The office is in shut down mode. They're moving operations to another location. She's expected to rejoin them at their new center, in ten days.

She'd remained at the hotel until late yesterday afternoon, debating whether or not to return to the flat in Montparnasse. She hasn't been back to the home she shared with him since the morning he left, two months ago.

She doesn't think she'll ever be able to again.

So she came back to the Marais home of Nicky Parsons, part-time Sorbonne grad student, full-time black ops undercover analyst. After the weeks-long, marathon interrogations and the anxiety of wondering if they were going to kill her as they'd killed Conklin, she'd gone straight to bed, intending to take a brief nap before meeting her cousin for dinner.

She'd slept right through her alarm. When she sat up in bed at three a.m., it had been with a yelp of pain. Her stomach had been cramping viciously and she'd stumbled into the bathroom, barely in time to vomit into the toilet. When the spasm passed, Nicky tried to get up, moaning as her stomach squeezed hard. She hadn't been nauseated for the first trimester; she thought the second trimester was supposed to be better? She felt bile rising again. _What was happening?_

She'd been on her way to the kitchen to get some water when a wave of pain rippled from her lower back to her toes, accompanied by a sudden gush of warm liquid between her legs, blood and matter pooling at her feet. Nicky's frightened scream had preceded her crumpling to the ground, another convulsion seizing her, causing her spine to arch. With each spasm, her body expelled more fluids. _Her baby!_ She'd collapsed between the sofa and coffee table, another contraction undulating. For an indeterminate time, convulsions had rumbled through her body, the miscarriage crippling her on the floor amidst vomit and blood, the mirrored wall providing an unvarnished and desolate view of it all.

It's dawn now.

Her body is battered from the contractions and from lying on the hard floor for so long. Wet tears slide down her temples. She could crawl to her room and get her phone, summon help; but she doesn't. Nicky rolls over on one side, sliding her knees toward her chest, both frightened of dying and ready for it.

She closes her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. Sleep, when it comes, is welcome.

 _"NICKY!"_

The frantic scream is Alex's voice.

Nicky opens her eyes, sees her cousin's pale and frightened face. Alex is by the sofa, grabbing a blanket and pillow.

"My God what's happened? Nicky!"

Nicky's voice is faint, dull with finality. "Miscarriage."

Her night shirt is soaked, the floor beneath her hips are wet and sticky. She turns her head, looks at the window. Daylight. Bright daylight.

"What time is it?" Nicky croaks.

"It's noon. You missed dinner with me last night. I've been calling you all morning. How long have you been lying here?"

"Since 3 a.m.?"

Alex drops a blistering combination of F-bombs as she crouches beside Nicky. "Why didn't you call me?" Alex shouts before she gets control of herself. "Where the hell is your phone?"

"Bedroom," Nicky murmurs. "Couldn't get to it."

Alex has whipped out her phone, is dialing. "Hold on, darling. I'm gettting help."

Nicky panics. "No hospitals. No paper trail!" When she grabs her cousin's arm, Nicky winces, her muscles sore. "Did you hear me?"

"Shut up, shut up! I heard you!" Alex's voice is urgent, but her hands are gentle as she pushes at Nicky to lie still. Tilting her head so the phone is trapped between shoulder and ear, she drapes the blanket over Nicky's body and lifts Nicky's head onto the pillow cushion.

" _Merde!"_ Alex curses. Nicky hears her cousin speaking in rapid fire French, realizes she's calling their family doctor. He'll be discreet. Except –

"Mummy!" Nicky hisses. " _No_ Mummy!"

Alex looks as if she's going to ignore Nicky but something about Nicky's expression must convince her otherwise because she tells the doctor that under no circumstances can he contact Madame Parish.

A moment later, Alex's hand is on Nicky's face, stroking away the filthy strands of hair. Alex's voice is soft. "The doctor's coming, honey. Can you move? I want to get you to some place more comfortable."

Nicky almost giggles hysterically. She has lost her love and her baby. Comfort means nothing.

Nicky's body shakes with the force of her anguish. "He didn't know me," she moans softly between tears. "He didn't know me."

"Who, darling?" Alex is worried. "The father?"

"He didn't know me. _Doesn't_ know me."

"Shhhh," Alex croons. "I'm here, Nicky. It'll be all right."

But Nicky knows that's not true: nothing will ever be all right again.

A few hours later, Nicky rolls over on her bed, looking out the window. Her bedroom in this apartment does not have _porte fenêtres_ leading out to a balcony. However, the two wide windows offer a breathtaking view of the Paris skyline. Nicky's hair is only slightly damp now from her earlier shower. Nicky winces as she shoves an arm under her pillow. Her skin is sensitive: she's scrubbed herself nearly raw.

She can hear the doctor talking to her cousin, giving her instructions on Nicky's care for the next twenty four hours. Dr. Jean Quang wants to see her in his private office the next morning to make sure that Nicky is in no danger for infection. Apparently, she'd actually miscarried her baby days ago; her body was just following through with removing the remants of the life she'd once carried.

Despite their low voices, Nicky can hear everything he's telling Alex.

"She's young and healthy. Miscarriages are common, but painful – physically and emotionally. For now, she needs rest. It looks like her body aborted all the fetal tissue, but there's always the chance of infection, so someone needs to stay with her. If she develops a fever, I want you to bring her in to the hospital immediately and call me; I'll meet you there. The same thing if you see signs of shock. Otherwise, I'll see you both in my office tomorrow afternoon."

"Dr. Quang, I just want to remind you: there can be no paperwork filed with Nicky's name attached to this miscarriage."

" _Je comprends, mademoiselle._ " Nicky can imagine the grave expression on his face. "But we have protocols to follow –"

"I understand. And that's why your patient tomorrow will be Alexandra Seward, accompanied by her very healthy cousin, Nicolette Parsons."

" _Mademoiselle_ ," the doctor begins only to be interrupted by Alex's steely tone.

"That is _all_ , Dr. Quang."

"… _Oui, mademoiselle."_

"Thank you. Please be sure to prescribe the pain medication and antibiotics for Alexandra Seward. I'll have the pharmacy deliver the medication."

The door opens and closes.

A few minutes later, Alex enters the bedroom and climbs into bed next to Nicky. She puts an arm around Nicky and pulls her close. For a moment, Nicky is stiff, unyielding. But in her cousin's embrace, Nicky's body trembles and she weeps silently, her breath heaving as she crumples into Alex.

"Shhh," Alex whispers, arms tight.

Alex offers no platitudes, simply holds on as Nicky empties her grief, which swells and tapers until it's all depleted. Alex leaves only twice, once to answer the door to get the delivered medications; and a second time to bring Nicky some weak tea. Now Alex is sitting in the bed, Nicky's head in her lap. Afternoon becomes dusk, and the cousins watch the sun set in the distance over Paris, the silence mournful. Darkness settles before Alex speaks.

"Are you hungry?"

"I don't want to eat."

"Okay. Are you in pain? I've got the muscle relaxants and pain meds that Dr. Quang prescribed."

"I don't want anything right now."

Alex doesn't press. They are quiet for another half hour before she speaks again. "Nicky, does the father know?"

"He knew about the pregnancy," Nicky says dully.

David's warm blue eyes. _Brown-eyed kids, Nicky._

"Do you need to tell him about the miscarriage?" Alex asks softly.

"No. He's gone."

Jason Bourne's stricken blue eyes. _I don't want to do this anymore._

"You said he didn't know you. What…what did you mean? Was it…a hook up? He didn't want to be involved when you got pregnant?"

"No. Just…he's gone. That's all."

"I don't understand. Is he…dead?"

Nicky's laugh is harsh, mirthless. "He may as well be."

She feels Alex's indrawn breath as her cousin starts to pose another question; but then Alex exhales slowly. Alex is no stranger to bad relationships with the wrong man; her silence acquiesces to Nicky's refusal to divulge details.

Alex's hand rests gently on Nicky's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, love. What can I do?"

"Just stay with me." Nicky takes a shuddering breath.

"Of course," Alex says gently. "Nicky, let's go travel. A few months away."

Nicky shakes her head. "I have to…I have to go back to work." _I need to find him, I need to find out what happened to him._

Alex is astute enough to hear Nicky's unspoken intent. "Nicky…what are you going to do?"

"What we always do. Soldier on."

Alex sighs.

* * *

 _Now_

Bourne pulls Nicky to her feet. She looks dazedly at her palms, at the crushed glass embedded in her palms, the smears and trickles of blood.

"Shit," snaps Bourne. His hands are hard on her shoulders as he spins her around, pushes her toward the kitchen. She's like a rag doll, falling against his body because she's momentarily unable to direct her own.

As if from a distance, she watches as he puts her hands under the faucet and runs the water. Rivulets of blood sluice over her hands, and glass shards wash away, clinking faintly in the ceramic basin.

There are two Nicky Parsons: the one who loved David Webb, and the one who lost him. The former would have folded into his body, allowed him to lead.

But that Nicky Parson died on a wood floor in a Marais apartment, five weeks after Jason Bourne disappeared from the Treadstone safe house in Paris.

Nicky's spine straightens, her muscles tighten and she pushes away. "I'm okay," she says curtly. "I got dizzy. Just…tired."

Bourne backs off as Nicky washes her hands. Her palms sting but it doesn't appear there are any slivers embedded in her skin. Her left hand took the brunt of the fall; and the cuts aren't deep but they're still bleeding. Her other hand is fine, if tender. She's wrapping her left hand with gauze bandage from the drawer when:

"What did I say?"

Nicky freezes. Bourne's question is a demand, not a query.

"Obviously I said something that upset you. What are you keeping from me?" He's angry.

"I'm not –" Nicky breaks off in confusion. The small window over the sink looks out onto the main boulevard. Something about the scene outside the building strikes her wrong. Her training kicks in. " _Shit._ We've been made _."_

She points at the window and Bourne is immediately at her side. He sees it too: the empty street, the people moving in the dark with a particular gait, a purposeful rhythm specific to specialized training.

Nicky spins out of the kitchen, Bourne hot on her heels.

Nicky grabs a stuffed backpack by the dining table. Jason gathers the briefing file, shoving them back into the plastic accordion folder.

"Give that to me," she orders. He frowns at her, but complies, handing her the folder, then pulls out his Glock.

Thirty seconds later, they're out the door.


	23. Chapter 23

Nicky shoves the folder into the backpack slung over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs.

Like most Parisian apartments, this building has only stairs; there is no elevator. The main staircase winds down to the ground floor, and Nicky and Bourne know that front door is about to be kicked in.

But Nicky and _David Webb_ specifically chose this building, a remodeled _hôtel particulier_ , because of an added feature: a set of back stairs, originally used by servants. The door to those back stairs had been sealed off long ago, but David and Nicky made modifications.

Bourne follows Nicky as she moves quickly for the stairs. "Where are we going?"

"One floor above," answers Nicky. She knows that by tomorrow Treadstone will have the legal means to search every apartment in this building, and the home she'd once shared with David Webb will be an open book to them. She's mournful at the loss of this last vestige of the Parisian life she had with David.

She races up the wide steps, feeling the burn in her thighs. They are only just slipping past the diamond-patterned tile landing leading up to the fourth floor when the main door is kicked open with a terrific crash. They can hear racing feet, snapped commands and shouted responses.

Jason skids to the wall, reaches out and pulls a red lever, igniting the building's fire alarm system. Nicky nods in approval as she heads up to the next level. Doors open and panicked voices mix with shouts of anger as residents swarm out of their homes and those on the lower floors are confronted with the intruders.

The fourth floor, like all the other étages, hosts apartments on either side with double height wood doors. As the floor's apartment residents exit their homes and head for the main staircase, no one notices as Nicky and Jason disappear behind the stairwell. Nicky points to a recessed alcove. The door would be unnoticeable if one weren't looking. Nicky reaches up and extracts a small key hidden on top, unlocking the door and snapping on a light switch. A string of dim bulbs light the way down the hidden staircase.

"We enabled access here and on the first floor," explains Nicky, slipping through the narrow door, Bourne following behind her.

"Nice," Bourne mutters, closing the door. Nicky hands him the key and he relocks it, then follows her down.

They can hear the chaos on the floors they pass, the siren blaring, the shouting in English and French as their hunters look for them while dealing with residents trying to evacuate the building. At the ground floor, Nicky turns the interior lock and pushes the door open cautiously. Thick greenery provides cover over and around the door. From the street, it looks like foliage climbing a trellis wall (another of their modifications). It's a visual effect because the lattice is actually set back from the building about three feet – enough space for two people to quietly slip out into the darkness of the side street without notice, though the commotion of the flashing lights, the sirens of the approaching fire brigade, and a confusion of people pouring out on the streets masks their movements anyway.

They both keep their heads down, moving quickly, Bourne following Nicky, who is dialing on her phone.

She breaks into a run as she barks into the receiver. "Now! No I'm not fucking kidding. You have twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six max."

Just as quickly she hangs up, opens up messaging and dictates a text: "Now."

She offers no explanation as to the identity of either recipient.

Nicky turns a sharp corner and smashes the phone into the brick façade repeatedly until the phone splinters and cracks while Bourne stares in bemusement.

"I've got a car stashed over on Rue Saint Martin," she tells him, throwing half the pieces into bushes nearby. "It's nearly a straight shot down to Pont Notre Dame."

She hurries down the alley, tossing the remaining pieces of the cell phone in a gutter. He follows, keeping pace with her, throwing quick glances over his shoulder. No one is following them…yet. A few minutes later Nicky is stalking toward a blue Peugeot 307.

Nicky throws him a set of keys which he catches unerringly; he goes around to the driver's side and unlocks the door. Nicky's not on the passenger side; she's still standing on the sidewalk.

"Get out of town," she tells him.

"Where are you going?" Bourne demands, moving back to her.

"You need to go," she repeats, taking a step back. "Cross needs at least a day to get a full view of that network. The only way he can do that if they're not looking at it. He needs a diversion."

"Divers-" Bourne's eyes widen. " _This_ is Cross' plan? For you to be bait?"

"This is _my_ plan," she hisses. He reaches out, grabs her arm. She slaps at his hand, but he does not release his hold on her.

"Are you crazy?" he bellows.

"I'm the _only_ fucking sane person I know!" Nicky shouts. "I'm the only one with all my faculties, whose brain hasn't been fucked with, isn't fucked, the only one of you who can make my own path. The only thing wrong with me is how jacked up my life is because of other people!"

Bourne's hand tightens fractionally around her arm. Even though he's barely holding on to his temper, he does not squeeze, does not shake.

Nicky jerks out of his hold. "Do what I tell you to do. I don't need to be saved."

"You don't have the sense God gave meal worms," he snaps.

"I know them, you don't," she says through gritted teeth. "I worked with them, I _was_ them."

"You're not them anymore. You're a loose end they tried –are trying - to kill."

"They won't kill me. I have something they need." She's betting on that.

"What could you possibly have now that they need that you didn't have before?"

"I know what happened to you."

That draws him up short, his eyes sharp and bright.

She plays her card. "I know why you broke."

His expression is ferocious. "You said no one knew what happened to me -"

"That was before tonight," she cuts in. "Before I debriefed you. But I…I know what happened to you."

He is gobsmacked and furious. "What were you planning to give them before?" She's silent, and Bourne shakes his head in disbelief. "You had _nothing_?"

She hesitates, then: "I had you."

His nostrils flare, eyes flinty. He connects the dots. "You knew they'd be watching your old place. You wanted them to see us together."

"I didn't know for sure they were watching, but it made sense," she agrees. "It's good spy craft."

For a moment, they stare at one another. She watches as outrage and betrayal and disappointment and resignation flit across his face, the changes so fast it's hard to see; but she has spent endless hours staring at him, registering every mood.

"I am so goddamned _tired_ of people using me," he grits out.

"I know," Nicky nods. She offers no apology. Needs must when the devil drives. "I had a different plan, but you came to me."

The tic in his jaw is the only indication that he's grinding his teeth. Bourne's eyes are mirrors to his fury, rage coiling in those blue depths. Whatever he intends to say next is interrupted by the sharp report of a gun and stone fragments flying from the door behind to her. They both duck. Twenty feet away and running toward them are a quartet of Treadstone agents, SIG Pro SP2022 pistols drawn.

"Get in the car!" Bourne orders.

She doesn't argue; they both jump into the Peugeot, and he has the car in gear before Nicky's even closed her door or buckled in. Several shots ring out behind them and the window behind Nicky shatters, the bullet embedding itself in the dashboard. She curses, snapping in her safety belt as Jason whips the car around a parked car, driving madly along the Parisian street. It's so late that even for a city never truly asleep, there aren't many people out; but Jason is laying on the horn as a warning to any pedestrian stupid enough to step into the street as he careens down the road.

"You got a safe house anywhere we can get to?" he asks.

"Sorbonne," she shoots back. "Over the Seine."

He shifts gears, cursing the Peugeot's lack of muscle.

"They'll be on us soon," Nicky mutters, and it's prescient because right then, two black sedans fall in behind them. More bullets zing past them, some punching through the rear windshield, shattering it. Glass flies toward them, scatters over the back seat.

"Get down!" shouts Bourne. He keeps his head as low as he can while still maintaining a clear view of the road.

Nicky is ducking, but not just to avoid bullets whizzing over her head; she reaches into her jacket to grab the Glock 19. A quick press check shows her the bullet in the chamber. Unsnapping her belt buckle, she sits up and turns, firing several shots through the empty rear window. Jason pulls the steering wheel hard to the left, causing her to tumble back in her seat. She grunts and rights herself, bracing her shoulder on the headrest, bringing the gun up again and emptying the clip. This time, she scores several direct hits: one of the sedans swerves madly, the driver overcorrecting and slamming into his cohort. The two cars jump the road and ram into a nearby building.

"Go!" shouts Nicky, spinning around in her seat, ejecting the cartridge and reaching into her backpack for another magazine. She slaps in a fresh clip and chambers a round.

Jason floors it, tries to get what distance he can from their pursuers.

"Shit. There's another one," Jason says, eyes on the rearview mirror.

Nicky turns –another black sedan whips out from a side street in front of the two cars she derailed.

"Keep on this road as long as you can," Nicky instructs him. "It'll veer off as we get closer to the Seine, but stay on Saint Martin. It'll take us directly to the bridge. Cross over and ditch the car at the Sorbonne. At 2 rue de Fossés Saint Jacques, there's a safe house, flat 4A. The entry code is 9941."

Behind them come more bullets, more shattered glass, and Jason veering to stay on the road.

"I'm going to die in a car chase," Nicky mutters darkly.

"Not today you're not," Bourne snaps.

Bourne is superlative at evasive driving, smoothly shifting gears while weaving seamlessly through traffic.

They are speeding down Rue Saint Martin when it empties out onto Rue des Varrieres – which is a one way street.

"That way!" points Nicky to the right, in opposition to the traffic flow, to where Saint Martin picks up again across the road.

Jason makes an illegal turn, directly into oncoming traffic, ignoring the blared horns and the panicked cars which part and swerve around the Peugeot. Bourne nearly clips a vehicle as he makes a quick jab left to rejoin Rue Saint Martin.

Nicky can see the Treadstone car behind them, momentarily stuck on Rue Saint Martin, trying to make its way across traffic to follow them. The Pont Notre-Dame is devoid of other cars as Jason crosses over _Quai des Gesvres_. The metal and stone arch bridge connects The Right Bank to _Île de la Cité_.

"Meet me at the Pont des Arts in three days," Nicky says suddenly, eliciting a startled glance from Jason, who is speeding across one spandrel. "Don't come for me."

She may be dead then but it's a gamble she has to take. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demands. His eyes widen when he sees her pulling the door handle. "Nicky?! What are you doing?"

As if recognizing her intent, he slows down enough that when she leaps from the car, it's not at a suicidal speed; she flings the door shut behind her and runs a few steps to the railing. She can see him, open mouthed with horror as she jumps over the bridge, straight down toward the black, murky waters of the Seine, keeping her body arrow straight. Behind her she hears the anguished scream of her name – or thinks she does. She knows he won't follow her; he can't, not with the other car closing behind him. At least, she hopes he won't. Or does she hope he will?

The conundrum that is her relationship with Jason Bourne is her last thought before she enters the river like a bullet, the dark water cold as it closes over her head.


	24. Chapter 24

"What's happened?"

Marta watches as Cross hurriedly pulls on a leather jacket. He doesn't answer, a harassed look on his face as he rushes through the flat, grabbing both his Sig and his Glock, tucking them in the back of his jeans, where they are hidden by his jacket. He grabs the duffel bag they've lugged from one continent to another and several magazines which he shoves into a backpack.

"Aaron!"

Cross blinks, distracted from his purposeful actions.

"Nicky's not coming here. She's on the run in Paris now. I've got to get to get to Schiffbauerdamm."

Marta can see he's anxious to get going. The Berlin neighborhood of Mitte is about six kilometers away; a fifteen minute ride by car. He can grab a cab if he goes by himself; but if she goes with him, they'll be delayed because he'll want to take precautions and they'll likely have to walk and take public transport – but this late at night – nearly 12:45 am, it won't be easy and they'll end up burning an hour or more in the process.

"I'll stay here," she decides.

He looks worried.

She wraps her hand around his wrist, squeezing gently. "I'll be all right. It's not different than what we've been doing the last few days."

"I don't know when I'll be back," he frets.

He wanted her with him when this went down; she knows he didn't want to worry about her safety if he was forced to be away from her for a prolonged period. But precious time is slipping by.

"Aaron, go. If something happens, I'll find my way to you."

The second evening in Berlin, under cover of the night, he took her to the building where his hacker was situated. She didn't meet the man; Aaron didn't want to expose her, but she got a view of the surprisingly comfortable digs. While the hacker's cohorts were situated with the wider Chaos Computer Club just a few blocks over on _Marienstraße_ , Aaron's guy had an actual rented office, adjacent to Reuter's Berlin headquarters. It's a brilliant cover: he's already hacked their network and uses Reuter's system for data feeds. Who's going to look for odd information streams flowing in and out of Reuters when their network is inundated with continuous information from sources around the world every day?

Aaron looks unhappy. She can see him assessing and discarding plans to get to _Marienstraße_ quickly, _and_ to have her with him. She knows he cannot achieve both objectives.

"Go," she tells him firmly. "Now."

He hauls her close for a quick kiss. "The other Sig in that bag," he nods at a backpack identical to his on the table. "You stay out of sight. If you think there's any trouble, you call me immediately."

She nods, lifting her mouth to his for another quick kiss. "Be safe."

He slings the backpack and duffel over one shoulder and leaves. She locks the door behind him, then races to the window which overlooks the square, watching as he exits the building and disappears into the night.

Marta takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. _One day_ , she thinks, _this will be a memory_. One day they will be safe.

But even as the thought flits across her mind, she's aware that at best it's a hope; and hope is not a strategy.

* * *

Nicky keeps her mouth shut and her eyes firmly closed as she sinks into the cold Seine. When her descent slows, Nicky kicks upward, breaking the surface and inhaling deeply, trying not to swallow any of the disgusting water. There's a reason people don't swim in the Seine: like many urban rivers throughout the world, it's polluted and teeming with bacteria. Sewage and heavy metals have afflicted the Seine's water quality for decades. Nicky mentally runs through a checklist of her last tetanus shots and the various illness she could possibly contract from exposure to the river.

It's late and dark but even so, her plunge into the river did not go unnoticed: from Pont Nôtre Dame and Quai des Gèvres, people are shouting and pointing down at her as the current sweeps her north toward the next bridge, Pont au Change. She struggles to make her way toward Île de la Cité, one of the two remaining natural islands at the center Paris itself. Nicky is aiming for an ancient stone staircase equidistant between the two bridges. Several of these run along Quai de la Corse and Quai aux Fleurs, two of the embankments which encircle the island. The stairs were originally used by merchants bringing their wares to the medieval city by barge, the bottom steps disappearing into the Seine.

The Seine is slow-flowing, but even so, Nicky is winded by the time she maneuvers herself over to the embankment. Her hands nearly slip as she grasps the hewn stone but she manages to pull herself onto the steps, dragging herself out of the water. She sprawls across the small landing, breathing hard. Sitting up, Nicky gags reflexively, overcome by the odor of urine. Her body is weighted down by her wet clothes but she doesn't stop to remove her heavy coat, pushing to her feet and ascending the stairs to Quai de la Corse.

Nicky reaches topside. From here she can see across the Seine to the Marais. The apartment there is no longer a viable hiding place, and she can't go to the Sorbonne safe house. God, she hopes Jason didn't stop for her, and kept going across the Pont Nôtre Dame to that flat. She hopes he can still take orders from her.

She hurries across the street, speeding past Rue Aubé. The streets are lined with a pavilion of green metal and glass market stalls. Built at the turn of the century, they are rusting and nearly decrepit, carts overflowing with pots, pushed against the stalls, some trash and wood crates leaning against decayed walls. Across the stalls, the front gates are locked and covered up, but greenery and blooms peek out from behind plastic and cloth covers. In addition to housing the fabled Nôtre Dame cathedral and the Palais de Justice, Île de la Cité is also home to the _Marchés aux Fleurs_ : the Flower Market where David Webb won his first kiss a lifetime ago.

Her life is a never ending cycle of irony and a past that won't give her respite, Nicky thinks grimly as she shivers, the wet and cold permeating her skin and sinking into her bones. She veers right onto Allée Célestin Hennion, using the flanking stalls for cover. In between two high stands of shrubbery, Nicky discards her wet jacket. Her thin wool jumper is already drying, the hollow fibers wicking away moisture. Her jeans are soaked but there's nothing she can do about that now.

She can hear the distinct wailing of police sirens. The police will be looking for a woman who may or may not have tried to commit suicide by jumping from a bridge; and where their attention is drawn, so too will Treadstone's notice be directed.

Cross needs them focused on her if he's going to exfiltrate data. She hopes the kid he's hired is really as shit hot as he thinks. Going head to head with Eric Byer is playing chicken at professional league levels. Although the Colonel is retired from the US Air Force, every indication suggested he was lined up to be a general. Rumor had it that Byer was given the option of a promotion to the starred ranks, or taking over NRAG. Why be a one-star when you could be a god?

Allée Célestin Hennion circles the flower market but the Cité Métro station is situated where the Allée intersects with Rue de Lutèce, a pedestrian pathway a few hundred yards ahead. Nicky spent formative years in Paris and can navigate the underground fluently. The trains stop running at 1:15 am, but half an hour is enough to start Treadstone on a merry fucking chase.

Nicky opens the wet messenger bag. The file is drenched, useless; but the Glock is still useable. A wet metal gun will rust and corrode over time if it isn't properly dried, but she only needs it to work tonight. She pulls it out and presses the release, removing the magazine and locking the slide to rear. Nicky tilts the pistol, draining water from the barrel. Returning her attention to the magazine, she removes a few rounds, flicking her wrist to empty the magazine of water before reinserting it and letting the slide go forward. Modern ammunition comprises four components: the bullet is seated into a case, which is filled with a propellant powder and sealed with a primer. Because the cartridge is airtight, water doesn't affect it. When the gun's firing pin strikes the primer, the percussive cap creates a spark and explodes, setting off the propellant and driving the bullet forward. Nicky racks the slide and tucks the gun into the back of her pants.

She leaves the messenger bag and makes her way toward the Métro, keeping her head down, trying not to look rushed. Behind her, there comes the sound of shouts and whistles, and she glances over her shoulder. The black clad agents speaking into headpieces with their guns drawn aren't the _gendarmes._ One of them walks over to where she left the messenger bag.

 _Shit._ They found her much quicker than she anticipated.

Nicky breaks into a hard run for the Métro, hearing the sound of pursuit behind her. Two rapid shots are fired, eliciting screams of panic and fear from a few people walking down the street. Nicky ducks, swings left through one of the stalls for the other side. She assesses those gunshots – at this range, the agents shouldn't – _wouldn't_ – miss, which means they have orders to bring her in.

As she approaches the entrance to the Métro, she sees people rushing from the pedestrian thoroughfare. The reason why becomes clear as bright lights from a car illuminate the stone walkway and a Peugeot suddenly squeals to a sharp stop onto Rue de Lutèce, causing some exiting Métro-goers to scream and jump out of the way.

Nicky gasps. _No!_

The lamps illuminate Jason's hard face as he points a gun out the open window – not at her, but at the agents closing in a hundred yards behind her.

Nicky nearly trips, her alarm is so great.

"No!" she shouts, waving him away. "Get out of here, _get out_!"

Jason stares at her, baffled by her dismay. He reaches over to fling the door open but Nicky shakes her head and screams, " _Go!"_

The she veers sharp left, away from him.

 _Shit! Shit!_

She hears more gunshots and fearful shouts and risks a glance behind to see two Treadstone assets down, the other two ignoring their fallen comrades, as they chase after her and Jason. Jason has thrown the car into reverse coming parallel to her.

Oh God, oh God. _Follow orders, follow orders!_

She stops, shouts at him as he pulls alongside, "I don't need to be saved!" she barks.

Bourne blinks.

"Get out of here." She infuses her voice with the command tone of a handler.

A bullet wings the top edge of the car, sparks flying as it makes contact with metal. They both flinch. Okay, that was meant to be a kill shot. So Treadstone's orders are to bring her in, or to kill Bourne.

Nicky runs for the street in front of her - Rue de la Cité, one of the island's main traffic arteries. More gunshots. More screaming. When Nicky risks a look behind, she sees the Peugeot lurching at the Treadstone agents, only one of whom is able to jump aside. The other is little more than a rag doll when his body slides off the hood as Bourne accelerates and does an hard 90 degree turn onto Rue Aubé.

Nicky runs down Rue de la Cité, spinning effortlessly around some pedestrians, knocking others out of her way, ignoring their outraged expletives. Her heart is pounding, her breath coming in gasps. Running on surface streets is a bad idea – she's too exposed. There's another Métro station four minutes away at Quai St. Michel in the fifth _arondissement_. She doesn't see any agents following her, but that doesn't mean they aren't behind her – or ahead. It's also entirely possibly they've turned their attention to more important quarry: Bourne. She prays that Jason gets away. He _has_ to.

The night is rent with sirens as the police join the fray. She wonders what Byer has offered as an explanation for mobilizing the Paris police force. As she crosses over the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger, which connects Île de la Cité to the Left Bank, Nicky sees a phalanx of _gendarmes_ up ahead. She veers onto Quai St. Michel for the Métro station, but three Treadstone agents suddenly converge on her from the Hôtel Notre-Dame Saint Michel at the corner of Quai Saint-Michel and Rue de la Cité.

It registers immediately that she's trapped.

A hard body knocks into her, bringing her down with a painful thud on the stone tiles lining the bistro in front of the hotel. She can hear the startled shouts of the bistro's few patrons who are enjoying a late night repast and drink. Nicky twists swiftly, breaking out of the agent's hold, coming to her feet, kicking the fallen man hard in his midsection. She hears his furious grunt of pain and sees another agent moving toward her. Nicky spins, her extended leg catching him across his jaw, sending him across a couple of tables behind him. She is mid turn, catching her balance when she sees an extended arm and a Sig Sauer crosses her line of vision. It's the third agent.

Light explodes across her eyes as the agonizing blow catches her across her temple, then everything dims. Before she blacks out, Nicky has the fanciful thought that she can see Bourne in the distance, watching from the blue Peugeot. Then there is nothing but darkness.


	25. Chapter 25

Marta jolts upright on the futon, her nerves taut when she hears the insistent buzzing of a phone. She squints in the dark at her digital watch – it's been an hour since Aaron left.

She hears the phone again.

 _Aaron! Is something wrong? Why is he calling her?_

She grabs the mobile from the coffee table beside her, staring at it in bemusement. The screen is dark. It's not ringing. But she hears the vibration of a silenced phone. Throwing aside her cashmere blanket, she gets up and switches on the small lamp. She listens for the repeated buzzing – homing in on the backpack on the dining room table.

Unzipping it, she finds Aaron's burner phone.

 _No!_

Then she recalls with a sick feeling: she was hovering near him as he was packing earlier. She'd grabbed his phone when she was trying to get his attention. In his haste and his worry, when she told him to go, she'd dropped his phone in the wrong backpack. Now it's here and he's without it; and it's ringing insistently.

But _who_ is calling?

Marta bites her lip. She hesitates, uncertain as she watches the screen light up, the phone pulsate, and the word "Unknown" flashing on the screen. Could this be Aaron, realizing he's left his phone behind and calling her to tell her so? But Mitte ist 20 minutes by car – why didn't he return to retrieve his phone? Or could he not leave?

But what if it's not him? She's never handled his phone – she doesn't know who has this number.

Marta takes a breath and hits the ANSWER button on the screen. She holds the phone to her ear, but says nothing. If it's Aaron – he'll tell her immediately; if it's not, she'll hang up.

The voice is male, but it's not Aaron.

"What the fuck is your plan?" shouts Jason Bourne's enraged voice.

"How did you get this number?" Marta gasps.

There's a pause as Bourne registers it's not Aaron on the phone. "Where is he?"

"Aaron left –"

"No names!" interrupts Bourne.

Marta winces. _Of course, of course_. Operational security. "He went to meet the guy. He was in a hurry and left his phone."

"What did she agree to do?"

"I don't know all of it," Marta replies. "She was supposed to create a diversion –"

"Yeah? Well they've got her," Bourne says grimly.

Marta's eyes widen.

 _Does this change Aaron's plan? What do they do now? Aaron has to be told!_

"Does he have a back up plan to get her out?"

"I-I don't know. Parsons was supposed to come here to Berlin tomorrow—"

"Shit!" Bourne yells, then the line goes dead.

"Shit!" Marta echoes, pressing the END button with her thumb, her hand shaking. She just violated Aaron's first rule of operational security – she revealed names and their location. If someone is scanning phone calls for key words – she's just exposed herself – and Aaron.

 _Idiot!_ she castigates herself.

Looking wildly around the room, she quickly pulls on her puffy jacket and a wool cap, trying to cover as much of the auburn color as she can. Racing through the apartment, she emulates Aaron's earlier frenzied packing, tossing what's necessary into the backpack. There is no gun in this backpack; it's in the bag Aaron took. Marta scans the room, considering what else she needs: she grabs the cashmere blanket from where it fell on the floor and shoves it into the backpack. The bag is stuffed, difficult to zip.

Slipping her arms through the straps, Marta turns off the light, and looks out the window. It's dark and quiet outside – no one is moving about. Going to the door, Marta looks through the peephole before opening the door cautiously. Poking her head out, she looks left and right; the hall is empty. She steps out, closing the door gently and locking up with the spare key. Padding across the worn out carpeted floor, she bypasses the elevator and makes her way to the stairs.

* * *

The aged building that houses Aaron's flat is utilitarian – a square block, part of a line of row buildings attached to one another. The façade is a buttery yellow, five stories high. The lowest level houses storefronts and a delicatessen. The four floors above it are residential. Rectangular balconies jut out in front on either side of the building, the marigold cinder blocks saved from being just serviceable by the whimsical arched detailing around the windows on the fourth floor.

Across the street is Boxhagener Platz, a green park which spans an entire city block. Marta exits the edifice, glancing at her watch. She curses softly. It'll take an hour to walk from their flat to the Reuters building in Mitte; at this time, taxis are sparse and the U-bahn is closed. The night buses operate continuously all night, marked with the "N" designation, but they run in 30 minute increments. She's already missed the N40 which picks up at Boxhagener Platz. Its next stop is on Simon-Dach _Straße_ , a five minute walk away. She heads west on Krossener _Straße_ , her pace brisk.

Though she keeps her head down, she's keenly aware of her surroundings: it's dark in an urban area, and she is an unarmed woman walking alone. Marta is so attuned to the potential dangers at every corner of the barely lit streets that when her phone rings, she utters a jarred shriek. She's so rattled she answers the phone immediately, heedless if it's her phone that's ringing or Aaron's.

"Do not say one word about where you are or who you're with," comes Bourne's irritated voice.

"I can't talk right now. I'm trying to get to him and it's an hour walk to where he is."

"You're out in the dark? Is that safe?"

"It might be safer if I weren't distracted and situationally unaware because I'm on the phone with you," she responds tartly. "How did you get this number anyway?"

"I saw her dialing it earlier," he says shortly. "Are you being followed?"

Marta considered the dimly lit road, the barely populated streets. "No. But that could change. It always does."

"Are you in danger?"

"Not right now. There's a bus stop five minutes away. I can catch the bus."

"Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?" The urgency remains, but his voice has inexplicably gentled.

Marta doesn't even think about it. "No."

There's something comforting about knowing there's another human being connected to her in some manner, but Bourne's in Paris. What can he do if something were to happen? She has to be alert, to be aware of her surroundings.

"You need to tell him that they've got her. Whatever he's doing, he has to make sure it's going to get her free."

"Is she…is she – "

"She was unconscious when they took her. I followed them." There's a thread of suppressed violence in Bourne's voice. "I'll check back in with you in thirty minutes."

The line goes dead and Marta hurries to catch the bus.

* * *

The thing about getting your lights knocked out is how much waking up again sucks, Nicky decides as consciousness returns along with the mother of all headaches. She keeps her eyes firmly shut and stays still, trying to get her bearings.

She's on an uncomfortable bed, the mattress too thin to be anything but a cot. There's no pillow to speak of, and she's covered with what feels like a regulation issued light wool blanket. She's still dressed, her clothes are still damp and she _stinks_ of the Seine. Her skin feels sticky and her hair is grimy.

 _Gross._

She hears nothing in the room but the soft whir of a central air unit, but that doesn't mean she's alone. She's not shackled, which means they have her in a secure location. Escape won't be possible.

Adding all the pieces together yields that she's probably in a containment room.

With that, Nicky opens her eyes and takes in her cell. It's painted grey (of course), approximately six feet in width by nine feet in length. The room is windowless, lit by harsh fluorescent lights overhead, which makes it impossible for her to discern what time it is. Her watch is gone – of course it is; it's the first thing they would have taken away. Depriving her of sensory input is the first step in breaking her. Air is forced in through a vent overhead, and the solid metal door directly in front of her most likely uses a magnetic lock since there no door knob on the inside. She can't see the cameras but she knows she's being watched. To her left is another room, without a door. She can make out a toilet and judging from the room's juxtaposition, it appears there's a shower in there as well. Next to the cot is a metal chair, bolted down to the floor, on which rests a set grey pajama-like bottoms and a long sleeved white cotton shirt. Undergarments consist of cotton panties and a tank top. Everything is serviceable and plain. In short: prison garb.

Nicky sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed, dropping her head and wincing at the hammering in the base of her skull. Her body aches from the hard tackle that took her down, but nothing feels irretrievably damaged or broken. She gets up slowly and grabs the clean clothes, heading into the bathroom where she finds a utilitarian toilet and a tiny shower stall. A bar of soap and clean white towels rest on the sink. Sometimes, kindnesses are a way to break you, too.

Thirty minutes later, after a hot shower that eases some of the soreness from her body, her hair and body scrubbed clean, Nicky is dressed in the loose pants and shirt, her river-soaked clothing discarded in a corner. Her head is still pounding but there's nothing she can do about that.

Returning to the main room, Nicky sits down on the chair, hands resting on her knees, palms up. She knows what's expected of her; after all, she used to be on the other side of that door.

She has no way of ascertaining what time it is, but she knows fifteen minutes passes before a metallic click on the other side of the door signals that it's been unlocked. She knows because the entire time she's sitting there serenely, she counted off time in her head.

Slowly, the door opens.

* * *

Marta is worried.

One of the passengers seated in the middle of the bus is staring up at the wide rearview mirror over the driver's head. From her vantage to the driver's right, Marta can't see what the male passenger is looking at so intently. She's been careful to keep her face turned away, looking out the window; from the corner of her eye, she can observe him in the reflection of the front windshield. He keeps tapping on his smartphone, looking at the screen, then up at the mirror.

Despite hurrying, she didn't make it to the bus pickup at Simon-Dach _Straße_ in time; she had to wait another twenty minutes for the next bus to arrive.

It's a twelve minute ride to the transfer station at Spandauer _Straße_ and Marienkirche – named for the red-roofed brick Gothic church of St. Mary's which is located on Karl-Liebknecht _Straße_ in Central Berlin.

When she boarded the green _nachtbus_ , its double decks screened in with dark, smoky glass, she took an empty seat closest to the door. There were few travelers at this hour: on this level, six other people are scattered along the length of the bus.

The man was seated halfway to the rear of the bus, and is in his mid-thirties. He's a professional looking sort in a nicely tailored dark coat. Marta can see his eyes looking between the phone and the mirror, his smooth visage considering and suspicious. Slowly, he lowers the phone and dials.

 _If it feels wrong, it is wrong.  
_  
She hears Aaron's warning in her head and tries to be smaller, tries to keep her face down. Up ahead, she can see the Gothic steeple of St. Marienkirche rising above the red roofline.

The bus pulls to a stop.

The phone in her pocket vibrates.

She's bringing the phone to her ear when she hears the wailing pitch of sirens in the distance.

The man watching her is on his phone – and meeting her gaze directly in the reflection. Marta gasps.

"Run!" roars Jason Bourne's voice in her ear.

The bus doors open slowly and Marta sprints from her seat, dashing out before they're even fully open.


	26. Chapter 26

"Hello, Nicky. My name is Dita Mandy."

Nicky folds her hands on the table and studies the carefully groomed woman who's just entered the room. Dita takes a seat at the heavy wood conference table, facing Nicky. Nicky's been waiting at the table for twenty minutes. She was escorted from her cell by two men who are now flanking the door like guards. Their lack of weapons is deceptive: they _are_ weapons.

Like all interrogation rooms, this one is stark and sparsely furnished, consisting of little more than the long metal table and chairs. Behind Dita is a glass wall – a one way mirror through which others are observing them. In front of Dita on the table is a file folder two inches thick; to her left is a pitcher of water and clean pint glasses.

"We met once a few years ago when you accompanied Director Conklin to a meeting with NRAG," continues Dita. Her smile is warm but it never reaches her eyes.

Nicky doesn't answer; of course she remembers this woman, even before she saw her nearly a week ago in her mother's conference room. Dita Mandy is non-descript: brown hair, brown eyes; medium height and slender. Her dark hair is parted in the middle and gathered in a simple knot at the back of her neck. She is graceful, kitted out in dark colors and a conservative pant suit, glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She speaks with a measured cadence, her demeanor unrushed. Nothing about her stands out – which is exactly why she's one of Eric Byer's trusted lieutenants: Nicky knows that behind that placid demeanor is a perspicacious mind, a steely judgment that can sway Byer's life and death decisions.

Dita waits for Nicky to acknowledge her comment. Nicky stays silent.

Dita presses on, gesturing to the pitcher of water on the table. She pours a glass of water for Nicky, then for herself.

"You must be thirsty. Please have some water."

Nicky watches the careful manner in which Dita lifts her glass to her lips and drinks, as if to show Nicky that the water is safe.

Nicky keeps her hands on the table in front of her. She does not avert her gaze, meeting Dita's stare. Dita sets her glass down, her gentle smile at odds with the hardening eyes as Nicky makes no move to drink, or speak.

"Are you hungry? We can have something brought in for you. I'm sure the kitchen can bring you a sandwich or a salad."

Nicky mentally perks up. Whilst in her cell, she'd tried to derive clues about the location of her prison. She knows she's still in Paris; there's no way they had time (or reason why) to take her out of the city. The question is, where in Paris? Treadstone's operations have likely moved to a different location since she last served them, but Nicky doesn't think they'd take her to a Treadstone safe house. Why potentially compromise one of their facilities? Where would they take her that had a fully stocked kitchen? The first thought is a government facility – the embassy?

The Paris police were involved, which means diplomatic channels were tapped. That indicates cooperation at a much higher level. She assumes the State Department is on board with Byer; if that's so, then the American Embassy is likely involved. But she doesn't recognize this room and during her tenure with Treadstone, she's been to the embassy building countless times.

"Nicky? Would you like something to eat?" Dita asks again.

Nicky studies her now loose hands, spreading her fingers apart. Despite her awful habit of biting her nails, they're actually smooth, and not ragged.

"Nicky?" Dita's voice is still calm, but there's a edge now.

Mummy didn't particularly care for her nail chewing, but never criticized. Nicky pauses, tries to recall at time when Heidi censured her for anything, and comes up blank. It's possible Heidi Parish is the most awesome mother in the universe. Actually, more than possible; it's a fact.

"Where are Dr. Marta Shearing and Aaron Cross?"

Nicky looks back up at Dita, her generous mouth set in a straight line.

"We know you were with them recently in Vietnam, most likely with them in the last few days in Paris." Dita's voice is so smooth, so steady. "Where did Jason Bourne go after you separated earlier?"

Nicky looks back up at Dita.

"He didn't want to leave you." Dita pauses, delicately. "He can't."

Again Nicky doesn't react.

Dita nods faintly. She gets it: Nicky's not going to talk. Nicky's been part of so many interrogations, has conducted so many herself; there's no reason for her to open up her mouth and give away her game.

What Dita wants to know is what Nicky's willing to talk _for._

She leans back in her seat, a faint smile on her face. Nicky mimics Dita's posture, sliding back against the back of her chair.

The women eyeball one another, expressions and carriage similarly neutral. Nicky knows this game because it's a cornerstone of Treadstone interrogation. Silence is uncomfortable, unnatural to the human psyche's need to connect and communicate. Given enough time, an interrogee eventually caves. Nicky counts off time in her head and knows Dita is doing the same.

Neither woman speaks. Within fifteen minutes, the guards at the door begin to shift, moving their bodies in unconscious discomfort. Nicky considers the one-way mirror, wonders if the people behind it are fidgeting or pissed.

Forty-five minutes in, the soundless room is oppressive, as if deprived of air.

Fifteen minutes later, Dita glances at her watch, her lips compressed in a thin line. She's angry. Nicky fights the impulse to smile: Dita's time limit has been exceeded and she doesn't like the disadvantage.

Dita opens the folder in front of her, pulls out several sheets. She lays a series of photos on the table, spinning them so they're right side up for Nicky's viewing. Her movements are slightly jerky, betraying her agitation.

"These photos were taken today." She points to a photo of Jason and Nicky standing by the Peugeot earlier in Paris. Nicky studies the image dispassionately: Jason's face is hard, angry as he glares at her. Nicky knows exactly when this photo was taken.

 _I am so goddamned tired of people using me._

"This one was last week in Ho Chi Minh City." It's the image that went out on the wire, the one of her with Marta Shearing.

Nicky inhales deeply, as if containing a yawn.

"When did they contact you? How long have you been working together?" Dita leans forward. "What are you planning?"

Nicky and Dita both know Nicky has no intention of answering any of those questions; but these are formalities, the first steps in a long dance.

"Nicky, you're one us," Dita says smoothly. "Give us what we need and come back in. You were a good handler." She pauses. "We could still use you."

Nicky cocks a brow, sees her image in the mirrored window behind Dita. Her expression is ironic. _Really? You want me to believe that?_

Dita's face is pinched. "That sounded stupid to me too," she confides tightly.

Nicky remains impassive.

"We don't have to talk." Dita says calmly. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a Sig Pro SP2022 like the ones carried by the agents earlier. With swift movements, Dita chambers a bullet and points the barrel in Nicky's face. "We don't actually need you."

Nicky tries not flinch but her breath stutters. She stares at her reflection in the mirror behind Dita, wondering what they see on the other side. Is Dita acting on their orders or on her own?

Dita's finger is on the trigger, her eyes cold. Then she grimaces, and reaches up with her right hand to remove an ear piece. She places it down on the table. Nicky can hear the tinny sound of someone shouting. Dita makes a fist, and pounds the delicate electronics. "No one saw you," Dita asserts. "We dispose of you like the trash you are, no one knows better."

A car chase in Paris, people shooting at one another, dead bodies, and a take down in public view where people were recording with their smart phones? Nicky isn't stupid – she was in plain sight of a restaurant and caused enough commotion to draw attention from street journalists and social media hounds.

Still Nicky says nothing.

The door suddenly opens. Zev Vendel's neat appearance is at odds with the harassed look on his bearded face.

"Dita."

Dita does not waver, her gun steady, barrel facing Nicky.

"Dita," he says again.

Nicky can't tell if he's telling Dita or asking her.

A moment passes, then another. Dita's hand does not shake. Nicky's breath does not stutter again.

Then Dita purses her lips and stands, racking her slide and emptying the chamber. Nicky can barely contain the gasp as adrenaline seeps from her body, leaving her shaky. She clenches her fists.

Dita doesn't look at Nicky again as she walks briskly to the door. As she leaves the room, Vendel enters and takes Dita's place at the table. Unlike Dita, Zev doesn't bother with fake sincerity. He taps the file folder lightly, studying Nicky.

"What's in Berlin, Nicky?"

Nicky starts at Vendel's bald statement.

 _Goddamn Marta._


	27. Chapter 27

Marta stares down at the body at her feet. Adrenaline seeps from her body, leaving in its wake nothing but nerves and fear. A pool of blood widens around the body. She can't stop looking at the pale face, the shock in those sightless blue eyes. Slowly, she wipes the bloodied push dagger across her dark jeans, hand shaking as she slides it back into its hidden sheath on her belt.

"Marta."

Bourne's voice is firm in her ear. Marta sways, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Marta," Bourne says again, impatiently. "Get his gun, and keep moving."

Has it been an hour since she pushed her way out of the U-bahn train, racing into the night as sirens screamed closer? An hour since she'd run through this half of the city, narrowly avoiding agents while Bourne shouted commands in ear, telling her where to go, where to hide, what to do?

" _MARTA, MOVE NOW_ ," yells Bourne.

Marta snaps to at the command and mechanically obeys, reaching down to grab the dead agent's gun. She reaches up to adjust the Bluetooth headset, pushing it back into her ear. Tucking the gun into her jacket, she steps over the prone body, heading for a flight of stairs across the way.

She's been snaking her way toward the Reuters office, which is located across from the Spree river. Bourne's voice in her ear is like a personalized GPS navigator. She's tried to blend in on the spare, quiet roads he's instructed her to take, but when she was trying to cross the Spree at _Friedrichstraße_ , she'd drawn the attention of an agent scoping out Berlin _Friedrichstraße_ station.

She'd run, the agent in pursuit, alerting his team that he had her in his sights. The chase ended at the waterfront promenade of Reichstagufer. She'd wedged herself in a crevice, then backtracked until she was behind the agent – the way Aaron had taught her. Her fingers locked around the T-bar of her push dagger, she'd jammed it hard into his back, puncturing his kidney… the way Aaron had taught her. She expected some sort of sound, some vocal protest to the end of his life; but the choking gasp had been all before he simply collapsed, a bleeding heap on the ground.

Marta doesn't look back, keeping her eyes forward, determined not to succumb to the panic and horror screaming through her body.

"He's dead," she whispers harshly.

"Yes," comes Bourne's ruthless answer. "Him or you. Keep going."

She jogs up the stairs leading up to Schiffbauderdamm.

"How far are you from him?" Bourne asks.

"Ten minutes, maybe."

"Move fast. They'll be coming." She shivers. No need to ask who 'they' are.

"Where are you?" she asks him.

"Across the street from where they took her to."

"Do you think she's alive?"

There is a heavy silence on the other end. Marta hears the unspoken answer: _I don't know_.

"What are you going to do?"

"She told me to do nothing."

Marta's face screws up in confusion. "What? Why would she do that?"

"That's what I want to ask your boyfriend."

She comes topside at Schiffbauderdamm, only to run straight into a black clad body. Hard arms lock around her before she can arm herself.

 _Agent_!

Marta screams.

* * *

Nicky's first thought is that Marta and Cross have been caught. No, she decides. Vendel mentioned Berlin, not Marta or Cross. He's fishing. But something's definitely happened to expose Berlin.

"What's in Berlin?" Zev asks again. Like Dita, his non-descript demeanor doesn't hide the coldness in his eyes. This is the man who stands on Rick Byer's other side.

"Jelly doughnuts?" Nicky hazards.

Zev eyes harden. "We'll have them soon. We won't need you then, Nicky."

The implication is clear.

"Were you this difficult when you were working for Conklin?" Vendel wonders aloud.

"He seemed okay with my photoshopping his wanted posters and making PowerPoint presentations."

"Aren't you lucky we got you to do other things?"

Nicky doesn't like the insinuation they were aware of her. Under Conklin's tenure, she was anonymous, another cog in the Treadstone wheel, sometimes visible only as the dispensary admin rather than as a handler.

Vendel taps the folder that Mandy left. "You were promoted once while working in Treadstone. Once. Was Conklin stupid, or were you…deliberate?"

Nicky sits, stone-faced.

"This file used to be pretty thin, actually. Your background check, your transcripts, a letter of reference from the then-Director of the CIA. Impressive, actually, that letter. Your initial psych evals." Vendel sighs. "There was nothing in that file to indicate…" He gestures at her. "It took us a while to construct who you were…who you are…after Madrid."

As far as they know Madrid is where she betrayed Treadstone and Vosen, thrown in with Bourne.

"Why, Nicky? What was in it for you?"

She looks up at the mirrored wall behind him, tries to figure out where her mark might be standing.

"Where's Bourne?"

Nicky searches her reflection, wonders if _he's_ up front and center, where he should be, calling all the shots, or if he's standing to the side, cold-eyed, cold-hearted and with steely purpose.

"You've got five minutes, Nicky. Then this – "

"You're asking all the wrong questions," Nicky interrupts.

Vendel's brows rise. "What questions should we be asking?"

"'What do you want?'"

Vendel plays along. "What do you want?"

Nicky leans forward earnestly, crooking her finger at him. Vendel draws closer. Staring at him, Nicky's eyes narrow. "I want to talk to Byer."

"No way." Vendel shakes his head.

Nicky leans back in her seat, her posture relaxed. "Then I've got nothing to say to you."

"Don't worry about it." Vendel taps his right ear, a satisfied smile on his face. "We've got her."

Nicky betrays nothing: not a gesture, not a flicker, not a breath.

Zev smirks as he gets up. He gives her a finger gun gesture, crooking his thumb as he departs the room.

* * *

"Marta!" Two male voices shout her name; one is Bourne. At first she doesn't recognize the other voice, her senses frazzled. But the hard kiss pressed against her mouth is familiar, as is the brusque scent of him, and she goes slack in Aaron's embrace.

"Jesus," Cross utters. He holds her tight, his hand cradling her head.

"I killed an agent," Marta tells him weakly.

Bourne's voice comes through her ear. "He's got you?"

"Yes, yes," she murmurs weakly. "Bourne…"

Aaron frowns, confused. "What about Bourne?"

In answer, she dislodges the Bluetooth piece from her ear and hands it to him.

"Later," Cross tells the mic tersely, disconnecting the call. "I couldn't get to you earlier. Nicky's in play. We need to go."

Marta blinks. "That's what he needed – "

"Later," Cross repeats, grabbing her hand.

He breaks into a run, pulling her behind him. Marta wonders if there will come a day when she isn't running.

* * *

In the empty room, Nicky eyes the portfolio.

Reaching across the table, she pulls the thick folder toward her. She flips through some of the papers, reads the notes on Bourne and Cross and Shearing. A particularly thick report is of interest. Nicky flips through the analysis, dispassionately reading someone else's assessment of her psyche.

She removes the staple and pulls apart the report. The front and back pages are set to one side blank side up; pages with printing on both sides are set in a separate stack. She grabs more reports and loose documents from the folder, shuffling papers into two stacks until she's got sixteen blank sheets, and sixteen sheets with printing on both sides.

Nicky grabs a sheet from the stack of blank papers.

She takes top right corner of the paper and folds it to form a triangle, the sides of the paper flush. Below the triangle, she folds the horizontal strip, pressing against the crease. Unfolding it, she tears the strip until she's holding an 8.5 by 8.5-inch square.

Nicky folds the paper in half vertically, horizontally and across both diagonals. Then she brings the left and right corners together, both top corners and the bottom corners up and over. She presses the paper flat and folds along the creases, with two flaps meeting in the middle creating an origami "bird base." Left corners are folded into the center crease, then repeated on all sides. A valley fold comes next, followed by rabbit-ear folds.

Her movements are practiced and precise; within minutes, she has created a white paper figure. Nicky reaches for a second sheet of paper, and goes through the motions again. It takes her another few minutes to complete the second figure; she repeats this pattern six more times, then does the same thing with the stack of printed paper. Nicky's intensely focused on her task, her hands moving nimbly, squash pleats and creases joining her folding repertoire. Different alignments create new shapes; soon there is a collection of sixteen white and sixteen printed silhouettes on the table.

Grabbing the paper strips she'd set aside earlier, she weaves them into a large square comprising white and printed blocks.

Nicky looks up briefly at the mirrored wall before she returns her attention to the paper characters, making a few rapid adjustments to set them upright on the checkerboard square.

When she is done, Nicky leans back, splaying her fingers, squeezing her hands together, as if to relieve the fatigue from folding, bending, and creasing.

Before her is a cleverly wrought origami chess board, thirty-two white and printed paper combatants ready to do battle.

She pushes her king's pawn forward two squares.

Nicky looks directly at the mirror. "I know what happened to Bourne."


	28. Chapter 28

Byer isn't someone who gets summoned. It takes a while for him to appear; but when he enters, Nicky shivers.

He is boyish-looking, with dark hair and clear blue eyes. The first impression of good looks gives way the longer one spends in his company; the handsomeness cannot hide the intrinsic danger that clings to the man.

He _looks_ normal. He looks like your neighbor, the guy you work with, the dad picking up his kids from the school line, the guy whose profile you single out; he's Everyman. And that is the most frightening thing of all because eventually it seeps into your consciousness that Byer is basalt; inhuman, precise, a machine, built for one purpose alone: to bend worlds to his will, to complete the mission to which he has been entrusted. He is a zealot, a true believer, a Patriot with a capital "P."

This is the man whose decisions have ended _thousands_ of lives. Not tens or hundreds. There are villages from Somalia to Bosnia that have felt his wrath. There are men and women whose decisions drew his notice and who are now dead. She knows about a village in Afghanistan where there were charred bodies too small to be anything but children. Everyone knows about the execution of a traitor in the Treadstone office _in full view_ of a roomful of other agents. Agents who'd held their screams as blood and brain matter had drenched them. And Maggie… _Maggie._

Nicky thinks of Byer as Solomon: judge, jury, executioner.

He glances at the board, then takes the seat recently occupied by his aides. Byer doesn't ask her what she wants. It's beneath him. What she wants is immaterial; she has something he needs and he's here to retrieve it.

"One game," says Nicky. "I win, we're out. You win, I tell you why Bourne fell apart."

Byer studies her. For a few quiet moments, there is nothing in the room but their breathing.

"Fucking Conklin," he says without heat, and pushes his king's pawn forward to block hers. "You tell me what happened regardless."

Nicky brings her knight out to f3 and Byer advances his queen's pawn one square. Nicky's answer is to move her own queen's pawn to d4. Byer slides his bishop to g4, threatening her knight at f3.

Nicky's pawn takes the pawn at e5 and Byers follows through on his threat by taking the knight at f3 with his bishop, leaving her queen exposed.

Nicky's brows raise. She snaps up his bishop with her queen. He retaliates by taking her pawn at e5.

Byer cocks a brow. " _We_."

"Me. Cross. Dr. Shearing." She pauses. "Bourne."

Byer chuckles. He doesn't even try to humor her.

Nicky's bishop moves out to c4. Byer brings his knight to f6 and Nicky moves her queen left to b3. Byer's black queen enters the game at e7.

"Everyone thinks so highly of the queen," Byer says pleasantly, his finger lingering on his queen. "I think she's a chaotic bitch. Kings are worse. They're limited, weak, with no foresight or real power." He taps his knight gently. "Knights, though. There's a long history of men on horse advancing the causes of kings and queens."

"Push an agenda," Nicky interjects. "Sin eater."

His eyes are hard, the slash of a mouth a rigid line. "That's right."

Nicky's other knight jumps to c3 and Byer's black pawn comes out to c6. This is the notation of their play:

1\. e4 e5

2\. Nf3 d6

3\. d4 Bg4

4\. dxe5 Bxf3

5\. Qxf3 dxe5

6\. Bc4 Nf6

7\. Qb3 Qe7

8\. Nc3 c6

Nicky eyes his black pawn. She moves a bishop to g5. Another black pawn enters the fray, pausing at b5.

"Everyone has a role. Even sacrificial material," he says, tapping the pawn. " _Especially_ cheap material."

Pawns are only worth a point each in the game.

"There are more of them," continues Byer. "But intrinsically, they're fodder, blocking and tackling, setting up the more powerful pieces for play."

Nicky ignores him, takes the pawn he just moved with her knight.

"They have a purpose. Once they've fulfilled it, they're off the board," Byer finishes. His other pawn slides diagonally to take that knight. "They're dead."

Nicky moves her bishop and takes that same knight at b5. "Check," she grinds out.

He glances at the board, smiles. Nicky marvels how the gesture lacks anything resembling amusement.

"You're already dead, Parsons."

* * *

Cross moves like a dancer, his kick catching his assailant in the throat. The agent drops, hands to his throat, already dead before he hits the ground because Cross double-taps the man, the silencer muting the sounds of a bullet in the chest and one to the agent's forehead. Another agent was rushing forward when his compatriot went down, and slaps Cross' gun away. He engages Cross in a flurry of swift kicks, punches and leg sweeps.

Marta can't observe too carefully: she's on the ground, wrestling with the third agent for possession of the gun she'd taken earlier. She is struggling, nearly on top of him, both hands gripping the gun that he's trying to turn toward her. Marta knows she can't win with brute strength; but Aaron has trained her. She drops her hands and smashes her fists into the agent's face. He howls in pain and rage, and Marta rolls off him, crawling swiftly toward the fight that Aaron is winning.

Cross' discarded gun is in her hands and in the time it takes for her adversary to roll over, two shots to his chest end him. She's turning to help Aaron, but he doesn't need her help. He's letting go of a limp body.

Three men lie dead on the ground. One has a broken neck; the other two lay in pools of blood.

Aaron holds out a hand. Marta takes it. They're winded, bruised and their nerves are screaming; but Marta sees the spark of pride in his eyes, the satisfaction that she can hold her own. Her earlier nausea at knifing the agent gives way to a curious feeling, a suspension of horror, as if killing has become a normalcy.

They move quickly in the night, maintaining an urgent silence. Her blood is pounding, her breath is hard. It never ends; there are always more agents to take the place of the ones they fell.

They backtrack onto Luisenstraße, then go over to Schiffbauderdamm again, hurrying past the utilitarian Reuters building until they get to a cheery yellow edifice. The doors and windows on the ground floor are picked out in warm, inviting woods. Aaron pulls her tight against him as he guides her to an alcove right past the _Zimt & Zucker Kaffeehaus_. He unlocks the double doors and ushers her inside a residential foyer.

Marta follows him up five flights of stairs until they come to one of the non-descript doors on the floor. Cross knocks, his pattern seemingly random – but Marta guesses it's a specific series of raps. A moment later, the door opens.

Marta gasps.

A boy who can't be more than seventeen stares back at her, spiky black hair shoved away from his thin, angular face. Dark blue eyes peer out from behind long lashes. He's taller than her but he's little more than a child, his body lanky, awkward, gangly.

"Oh my God," Marta exclaims in horror. "He's a _baby_."

The _baby_ looks offended and bursts out with a flurry of German vulgarities. Cross snaps at him in the same language before turning back to Marta.

"You graduated with honors in biochemistry and neurochemistry when you were little more than his age."

He pushes her through the door and the boy closes the door with a hard slam.

Cross introduces them off-handedly. "Marta, Christian Dassault. Christian, Marta."

"We're in some deep shit right now since you had to go rescue her," interrupts the boy in heavily accented English as Marta looks around.

The room is an industrial open space, threadbare and spartan. A long wall opposite the door is lined with windows, so light fills the space, but they are frosted to ensure total privacy – or secrecy. Half the room is a command center of monitors, servers, and machinery, all of it bound by a rat's nest of multi-colored cords and wires, tables and chairs; the other half comprises a mean kitchenette in the far corner and a battered couch in front of which is a surprisingly large, silent flat screen TV. Several Picture-in-Picture windows line the screen's lower half, set on satellite stations from around the world.

"We need to work," the boy tells Cross. Aaron squeezes her shoulder and pushes her toward the couch. The boy settles himself into an Aeron chair at the center of that post. Cross pulls up a seat in front of a monitor.

Marta's eyes widen as she watches the scene unfolding on the main screen: a shaky smartphone video of Nicky Parsons fighting Treadstone agents.

* * *

 _Then_

Nicky leans over the toilet and vomits. Her entire body shakes, her mind unable to assimilate what she just witnessed.

In the stall next to her, she hears quiet weeping.

She's too shaken to comfort her colleague.

 _Goddammit, get your shit together and get back in that room before they notice you've gone_ , she admonishes herself.

"Oh God, oh my God," moans the woman in the next stall.

"Shut up, Christine," Nicky growls. " _Shut up._ "

It makes Christine cry harder but Nicky's not in the mood or the position to offer kindness. At the sink, she rinses out her mouth with water. She stares at herself in the mirror, hating the wounded expression on her face, the pupils dilated with shock. Gritting her teeth, she forces her inhalations and exhalations back into a normal semblance of breathing and grabs her cheeks with hard hands, squeezing until she can feel pain, and splotches of color returns to them.

Christine's sobs have given way to hiccups and Nicky straightens. "You're already dead, Christine."

She walks out of the bathroom, heedless to Christine's fresh wails.

* * *

 _Now_

Byer doesn't blink. He just moves his queen's knight out to d7 and blocks her bishop.

"Your father was a convicted arms dealer. Your mother is one of the richest women in the world. And yet, there you were, in the CIA. Conklin didn't bother to think why? That was remarkably stupid for an extremely smart man."

Nicky castles. Byer slides his queen's rook next to his king. He leans back in his chair indolently. "Why _were_ you there, Nicky?"

"According to your report, I had daddy issues to work out."

Byer picks up one of the discarded printed chess pieces, looks at it carefully. "I think this might have been part of that report."

His delivery is so deadpan he'd be funny if she just didn't feel like screaming.

"You think we didn't know about the two of you? The weekend dates, the apartment in Montparnasse?

Nicky can't stop from reacting. Her nostrils flare, her eyes widen. "You _think_ you know."

Byer leans forward. "I _do_ know. Did you think it was coincidence how you were all paired up? Desh with Alexander? Owen with Maggie?"

Nicky's white rook slides up the file from d1 to take the black knight at d7.

His voice drops gently. "You with Bourne?"

His black rook snaps up her white rook.

"He's not coming for me," Nicky tells him defiantly. Nicky moves her remaining rook into the d file to challenge his rook. Byer moves his queen to e6. Her bishop at b5 takes the rook in the d file and is immediately snapped up by Byer's knight.

The lights flicker.

Byer looks up, brows raised. "You sure about that?"

 _Goddammit,_ Nicky thinks. Is it too much to ask that people do what they're told?

She forces herself to focus on the board, moving her queen up the board to threaten his king again.

"Check," she snarls.

His knight jumps to capture her queen. "Knights, Nicky," he warns her. Before she can make her next move, he leans forward. "Nicky. Do you know where your mother is?"

Nicky's eyes widen in horror.

* * *

A.N. The chess game Nicky and Byer are playing is actually the famous 1858 **"A Night at the Opera"** game played by American chess master Paul Morphy versus Karl II, Duke of Brunswick and the Comte Isouard de Vauvenargues. You can see the entire game play here: www. chessgames dot com/ perl/chessgame?gid=1233404

Thanks as always for your patience and enthusiasm!


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